Human Error
by Wisteria22
Summary: "For most people, to err is human; for them, to be human is to err." Sherlock made a mistake while dismantling Moriarty's network. His daughter, then, made a mistake and tried to care. Rated T for themes, mild swearing, and a brutal serial killer.
1. Chapter 1

I was never supposed to happen. I was a product of what my father calls human error. A mistake, if you will. Yet while eighty percent of people are accidents, I never grew up under the belief that both of my parents cared for me in the extreme. Both of my parents, according to the British government, died before I was born. And yet, here I am.

My father, a homosexual detective that actually has a functioning brain, had a bit of a problem. Some may even call it the final problem. Moriarty had created a vast criminal network, something that would require the most careful hand to untangle it all. Simply calling Uncle Mycroft wouldn't cut it this time. Moriarty began his plot soon after, determining that in order to entertain himself, my father had to die.

Clearly, he was not that successful. Otherwise, Casper the Friendly ghost would be recounting this story.

Instead, my father faked his death that day. He never slammed into the pavement. He never bled out, staring uselessly towards the sky. He was alive, the entire time. And his boyfriend, whom he never admits to being smitten with, stared at him dejectedly. Of course, it was natural that my father couldn't tell John Watson that he was alive. Being the blabber mouth he was, John would spoil the secret. But more importantly, he had won over my father's heart. In order to dismantle Moriarty's web, he needed clarity.

Somehow, this included staying with my mother in Miami, Florida. There was a minor case to be taken care of—a psychopath named Dexter—and it seemed logical for him to stay with her. After all, people do enjoy placing the dead together, regardless of whether or not they actually died. He spent a few months down there, learning more and more about Moriarty's network. One day, he went to dinner with her. A few weeks later, before he was due to head off to Belarus, my mother informed him that she was pregnant. At the time, no one had to have known about the dinner. No one would have had to know that my father, a homosexual man, managed to be seduced by…

Well. I don't believe I am legally allowed to say exactly who my mother is. Her website should give enough information to give you an idea if you are really curious. And besides, Dad always claimed that sexuality is largely the descriptor of the relative trend—curiosities can happen.

Anyways, Dad left on his assignment. My mother tended to her business, complaining as her figure became a little more rounded from the pregnancy. It didn't help her bring in anymore clients, I must say. Nine months flew by quickly, with Dad solving cases and untangling the web. Uncle Mycroft arranged for some extra care to be taken for my mother. He seemed to be concerned that another Holmes was going to be entering the world. No doubt, he theorized that I would damage his political reputation by becoming another hopeless druggie. I'm not sure who was more relieved the day that I was born.

Mother handed me over to my father as quickly as she could. It slowed him down a little bit, having to care for a baby while fighting crime. He might have been a little more thorough with the web if it hadn't been for me. What a shame, what a shame that he had a kid and couldn't do the job properly! When I was nearly two years old, my father gave me back to my mother. It was the start of a pattern. I would live with one of my parents until the other tired of me. By the time I was three, I was living with my father again, in his flat at 221B Baker Street. It was a bit of a nasty shock for Uncle John when he found out, but Aunt Mary insisted in covering me in flowers. Neither of them knew about me until after the wedding. It saved me the horror of wearing a dress.

I attended primary school, just the same as everyone else. When I was ten, they finally realized that I was gifted, and placed me into the honors program. Dad still hated having to go to parent teacher conferences, deducing awkward affairs for my amusement. In middle school, I was placed in the advanced math program, narrowly missing out on a spot for science and writing. Dad wasn't all too pleased. It was around then that things started happening to me. I would hear things that never happened. At first, it was a text alert, when a text never came in. Then, it was the sound of a gun, firing in the distance. As it progressed more and more, I realized that I had started to talk to myself.

My first breakdown happened in eighth grade. Dad was out with Uncle John, working a case. Only Mrs. Hudson, who was like a grandmother to me, remained at home. She didn't hear me. No one could have. I had locked myself in my room, curled into a ball, and started to cry. I was terrified that I was going insane, losing my mind. And naturally, there was no one that I could talk to about it. Uncle locked Dad up for doing drugs. Imagine what he would have done to me?

And finally, I made it out of the tiny school. I was sent to the public high school, one little girl in a sea of a thousand others. I managed to pull myself into honors English, advanced math, and advanced science. Dad was feeling a little more pleased with my grades, insisting that I continue band and attempt to learn another language. I was a little bit slow for the taste of him and my uncle, I assume. Yet I didn't care. This year was the best and the worst. I fell in love with a boy, a silly boy with an adorable smile that melted my heart. Dad always said that caring was not an advantage. He warned me not to pursue relationships with other people, _especially_ boys.

I didn't listen to him.

I dated that boy, I gave him my heart. I let him see me, for who I felt that I truly was. But in the end, it wasn't enough for him. I was the freak that could tell who a nameless text came from. Everything I found to be normal was strange to him. So I hid. I became the girl that he wanted, the sympathetic little creature with empathy. I faked having a sex drive for him. At some point, I even believed the lie that I had wrapped my head around, even when he cheated on me. The cheating lasted for months. I pretended not to notice, and when he told me about it, I pretended not to care.

I pretended to be fine, that the gaping hole that formed in my chest wasn't there. I pretended to display the same interest when Dad mentioned a case. I hid inside of the darkness, determined to fool everyone into thinking that I was okay. After all, I had done it before. I never had friends. Why, then, would I feel so hurt if some boy decided that I wasn't good enough for him?

It was only when Dad found me with the scarf pulled taught around my neck that the façade slipped. Previously, no one had been allowed to see me when my emotions got the best of me. I would hide inside of myself until I could go to a space to properly grieve. A place where I could lay out the broken pieces and shove them away, where I would never have to think about them anymore. In hindsight, this was probably one of the worst decisions that I could have made. The darkness had enveloped me, and I was falling quickly. It was so easy, to just let myself fall. It was like going to sleep, everything just vanishing and becoming meaningless. There was no pain that could find me there.

But Dad, of course, found this solution unacceptable. The very next day, he had me sitting in the chair outside of a therapist's, waiting to be seen. Uncle Mycroft had already been informed, and the threat of an institution was held over my head. The therapist diagnosed me with depression and anxiety, though I managed to hide some of the largest problems with my head from her. There was no way that anyone would be allowed to find out about them. I would rather die.

It was a few weeks after the first therapy session that I discovered scissors. The entire theory behind cutting never made much sense to me, until I tried it myself. The body releases positive chemicals to help you feel better when you are injured. Thus, by making an injury, I was now able to better regulate my mood. At first, no blood was even shed, just shallow scrapes. The more I did it however, the deeper the cuts became. Eventually, I know, Dad will find my scissors too.

But at least, he doesn't know my darkest secret.

My name is Jade Holmes. This is my story.


	2. Chapter 2

Precisely two minutes before my phone alarm would ring, I woke up in my room. It was a soft yet dark blue color, decorated with diagrams of chemicals and pictures of stars. On the ceiling, the Milky Way Galaxy as was visible on March 14th, 2019 at 8:59 PM exactly had been constructed out of glow in the dark stars. Dad had scowled at me when he found out, but I left them up there anyways. The telescope I had begged for stood staring towards the wall, as if there was something to bother looking at. Otherwise, the room was extremely messy, Harry Potter novels littered around with random bits and bobs.

I slowly uncurled from underneath the covers, going through my mental checklist. Everything seemed fine. I was Jade Holmes, daughter of the world's most childish detective. Letting out a sigh of relief, I slid out of bed, shivering as the cold air hit me. The heating was always terrible on the very top floor, but I never complained about it. This was Uncle John's room when he lived with Dad, and if there was one thing I tried my hardest to do, it was to avoid _anything_ that would make Dad think about him. He would mope for days if he realized that John didn't live here anymore, instead preferring to have sex with his wife all the time.

Dad nearly walked in on them once, in retrospect. That was an amusing thing to hear about later on. Chuckling slightly, I changed out of my PJs and into blue jeans, partnered with a Doctor Who Weeping Angel t-shirt. While Dad hated anything to do with Astronomy, I was passionate about it. Time travel always appealed to me, and I spent not nearly enough time watching the television show. Moffat, simply put, had to be a genius. Evil, yes, but vastly intelligent.

"Jade, go back to bed," Dad's voice called, a cold baritone with slight tinges of affection. Dad has been acting like this a lot lately. My stomach feels as if it knots itself, knowing that to him, I seem like glass. Fragile, and about to shatter.

"Why the hell would I do that?" I ask, trying to sound sarcastic, but the end result betrays my sleepiness if anything.

Determination filling me, I finish getting dressed and walk down the stairs. My eyes scan the room, attempting to find my backpack somewhere, sitting perhaps on a chair or on the floor by the door. A quick glance confirms that it's not where I had intended to leave it. All of the experiments are there, including the analysis on the effects of white out when combined with blood (A positive, to be precise). No signs of Mrs. Hudson doing any of her cleaning, in which she believes that my notebook is overfilling. I've named it after Uncle dear. Both of them are fat and full of knowledge.

Dad chortled, holding my backpack in his hand, "Make a deduction."

Raising an eyebrow, I seriously considered whether or not he was joking. As tired as I was, I never did make too many deductions for Dad to inspect. The entire thing served to aggravate my anxiety disorder. If there was anything I tried to do my hardest, it was to impress him, whether or not I cared to admit it. Most children had an easier time at achieving it; I don't think I had ever managed to make Dad truly feel proud that he had a whiny little brat.

"Sometime today, if you don't mind," Dad added, still dangling my backpack in his fingers.

"Fine. Whatever," I muttered, sighing as I set myself to work.

It was as if time froze. Details and information about past reasons he declared I was not going to school filled into my head. The first possibility is that he believed me to be ill. Physically? It didn't quite fit. However, with my…_episode_…the odds that he found me to be mentally ill were looking good. Then there was the backpack. He wouldn't have bothered to hold it if this was simply for one day. He would have just hidden it, if that was the case. This means that there has to be something he is going to do to the backpack.

I take a deep breath, then look at the equipment set up on the table. The pieces fall into play quickly, and I realize that my backpack is going to be used for his next experiment. He doesn't believe I will need it anymore. Thus, the odds that he wants me to ever return to school seem slim. Taking another breath, as if oxygen intake could be equivalent to brain function, I piece together the rest of the puzzle. I sigh, feeling the knots in my stomach increase.

Some days, I wished that I could just run outside of the flat and cry.

"You've pulled me out of school and are going to begin homeschooling me, largely due to the events of yesterday," I stated coldly, trying to mask all emotion from my tone. Feelings never helped.

Dad nodded, his black curls bouncing a little bit as he did so, "Good, good. I see the public school system hasn't done as much damage as I feared. Mycroft largely was responsible for all the little tests you had to take, of course. I wrote an essay on—"

"I don't want to be pulled out of school," I huffed, stomping my feet a little bit as I did so. Perhaps, Dad would overestimate how much I would miss my friends and place me back in.

Under no circumstances was he to find out about my little issue. If he did, the results would be terrible, worse than when Loki tried to rule the Earth in the Avengers film. No one would be allowed to know about my secret. And the more time I spent around a person that had actual intelligence, the scarier that possibility became. I sucked in air, feeling it sharp and tingling against the inside of my mouth. My face settled back into the mask that I wished to craft, one that seemed to share a longing for a rowdy pack of friends.

A face that wasn't hiding a terrible nightmare.

"Until you have proven that you are able to be alone without causing harm to yourself, Jade, that is simply not an option," Dad uttered, dropping my backpack onto the table and covering it with a fine layer of acid, "As much as I detest this parenting charade, there is a legitimate concern for your safety."

"Why would I not be able to do that?" I scoffed, resisting the urge to scratch my arm. Any indication that my habits were real, naturally, would only serve to prove Dad's point. I had been perfecting lying to him for years.

Perhaps, this would be the time that I managed to get it right.

Dad smirked, peering over at me. His gaze was penetrating, tearing the simplest people apart in seconds. If you were lucky, it would only take him a minute to figure out everything there was about you. Regulating my breathing, I stared back at him, my face perfectly displaying confusion. The small tic I used to have as a child relatively under control, yet the nerves in my stomach began to creep up on me. The pain burned, searing through me as it spread fiery fear to each part of me. My mind began to lose its hold, yet Dad never ceased looking away.

Eventually, he chuckled and glanced away, giving me a split second to relax. Tentatively, I scratched my left hand, shivering with pleasure as an old scab burst open. The blood was minimal and easily hidden under the sleeve of my jacket. Hopefully, Dad would be far too preoccupied with destroying my backpack to notice.

After all, the world's finest detective can't always see everything, right?

"Bandages are on the top shelf," Dad murmured, pulling one down and handing it to me, "You may want to consider carrying them with you, if your habit is going to persist in such a manner. It would be inconvenient to me if you were to contract something serious, such as an infection that could have been prevented with a simple band-aid."

"Thanks for caring," I sighed, placing the tiny bandage on my hand. The real purpose of it was to keep me from scratching later. I knew how this game worked.

"Sarcasm, dear?" Dad questioned, feigning innocence, "Isn't that what parents do? Care for their children?"

"What's the matter with you? Did Uncle pass a new law?" I shot back, staring at my backpack with longing and pity. I still had my copy of _House of Hades_ in there, which I had neglected to finish. Too late now, I suppose.

"He does little else…," Dad's voice drifted off, as his attention remained focused on the backpack, "Go back to sleep. Lessons won't begin until late this evening. And I'm not going to tell you why. You can figure it out. You're a big girl, or whatever the silly expression is."

The mask that I had been keeping up crumbled. Fortunately, he continued not to look at me. Tears slowly trickled down my face, staining my cheeks. I had lasted longer than I expected to, but it didn't matter. Dad always prided himself on being a high functioning sociopath. Apparently, that title couldn't apply to me. I was _weak_. I was something that needed to be covered in bubble wrap and held close.

Another tear slid down my face. I felt numb, trying to find the strength to protest, "I'm not a child…I…I can stay in school….Please…"

He didn't turn around. Something was wrong. Time stopped again as I saw him tense, every muscle of his body ready. His brain had been thrown into overdrive, as the poor backpack slowly was hurt by the acidic layer. Neither of us were paying attention to it. Briefly, I saw someone else beside my father in the tiny flat. A small boy, crying to his older brother, claiming that he could do it. I blinked and the image was gone. It had never happened.

Dad turned around, staring at me quietly. I nodded, as if I could understand. As if I knew deep down that I was just ill and needed help. I shivered, remembering my little problem. _Could he see it?_ Fear trickled in, as something strange happened. Dad pulled me close to him, smoothing my hair as he muttered something to himself.

"The east wind will pass you by, Jade. I promise you that."

I nodded, feeling more of the tears fall. I didn't feel up to questioning Dad's behavior just yet. It would be nice to let the fairy tale continue for as long as possible in order to avoid waking up.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're late," Dad said rather softly, the collar of his coat popped up. His face was sharp and hollow, ethereal and venomous. Very few people could stand to look at him—most of them would feel discomfort. It could either turn into admiration, rage, or terror—perhaps even jealously.

No one, however, was more true to themselves than they were around my father.

"I noticed," I said quietly, popping a stick of gum into my mouth. I looked past him, staring at the dusty curtains that hid us from the public eye.

"Your first lesson will be a practical one," he said coldly, glancing at my shaking hands. "I want you to tell me what it is."

"You want me to make a deduction?" I scoffed, before sensing the severity in his face.

There was a twinge of happiness in his smile. Something about it caught my eye—I couldn't say what. But he had made this face before, on countless occasions, and it was usually accompanied by only one thing. Yet this was supposed to be a lesson.

But on the overhand, he was Sherlock Holmes. There wasn't anything more important than his work. Nothing else mattered to him.

"You're taking me to a crime scene," I muttered, "And you want me to solve it, I guess."

"Excellent," he grinned, leading me out of the tiny flat, "Relax, you'll be fine. You're my child."

"And you'd disown me if I couldn't," I finished for him.

* * *

It was a dreary little scene. Rain drizzled down, with the soft flashing lights of the police cars reflecting off of each droplet. The chill penetrated my coat, turning my hands to ice.

"Sherlock, 'bout time!" Lestrade greeted, before eyeing me warily. "Erm…What's Jade doing here?"

"She's with me," Sherlock answered bluntly, the same answer he always gave.

He raised the crime scene tape above my head and escorted me over to the body. It was hanging out of a dumpster, and a pavilion of sorts had been constructed around it to prevent the rain from erasing evidence. A forensics team was already hard at work gathering the data, collecting various samples on swabs that were put in neatly labeled tubes.

"We're running additional tests," Lestrade explained, "We've had no leads for a few days, and the tests we ran don't make sense…"

"You'll be consulting with Jade," Sherlock stated plainly, nodding towards me. "She'll have the case solved in a few minutes."

"I will?" I stammered, my eyes darting around quickly, "I…I guess I can try."

Lestrade frowned, looking at me for a moment before shrugging in submission. "Alright. If she can't get it, I expect you to step up, Sherlock."

Ignoring the comment, Dad stepped back, taking Lestrade with him. It was just the corpse and me. The rain had started to pound even harder, bouncing off of the pavilion above my head.

Alright, Jade. We can do this. Just take a deep breath and…._Think._

The body was dangling like a ragdoll, the clothes awkwardly placed onto it. They were tattered and torn, as well as highly revealing. The hair was in a disarray, curls held into place yet spilled all over in a gigantic mess. The makeup and nails were stellar, aside from some runs—most likely from crying.

"She smells like soap," I muttered, having no further idea of how the murder was committed.

The fatal wounds seemed to be the head. Blood was seeping into the hair—she couldn't have died all too long ago for the blood flow to be continuing. A few hours at most would be most likely—anything longer than that was a stretch.

"_We've had no leads for a few days, and the tests we ran don't make sense…"_

"The medical examiner," I muttered—he would have been the one to pronounce death. He would have been the one to determine the cause of death. The examiner declared this woman dead a few days ago, when she couldn't have been dead for more than a few hours.

"Yes?" Lestrade inquired, "What about him?"

The soap. The scent engulfed the woman. The clothes. They were put on in a messy manner—as if she hadn't dressed herself. Freshly laundered clothes, perhaps, then. Put on her by someone else. She hadn't chosen to dress like that.

And then, there was the nails and makeup. It had been done to almost perfection, showing time and care. It couldn't have been cheap—the quality was phenonomal. This wasn't a stripper or a hooker. The probability of a wealthy woman working in the sex industry was low at best.

"He stated she died from blunt force trauma, yes?" I asked, although it was more of a statement. "The results from the laboratory—they didn't make sense, no?"

"Well, yeah," Lestrade nodded, "Look, if you can't solve this, it's okay. Sherlock can—"

"The Medical Examiner killed her," I whispered, my mind feeling almost completely calm. "He made her appear to be dead. He faked the results. Established an alibi, and then, killed a supposedly dead person. She died a few hours ago."

Dad nodded, smiling smugly. "Excellent analysis. She is indeed correct. The Medical Examiner is your man—the woman in front of us is his mistress. He didn't want his wife to find out about the affair, so he made her appear dead, determined she was legally dead, and killed her while the investigation was ongoing. The entire outfit was meant to throw you off track, and it certainly worked."

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade said, his eyes wide, "I'll get right on this. Thanks, you two—I meant it. I owe you one."

"More like two hundred," Sherlock corrected, with his ever pleasant smirk. "I'll be seeing you again, Graham."

"It's Greg," I muttered under my breath."

"No, it's Graham," he chuckled, before stepping out from underneath the pavilion.

* * *

It was a rather quiet room. The walls were painted a soft shade of green, like the hue of trees in the forest during summer. Various abstract pieces of art adorned the walls, with floral arrangements accompanying them. Everything in there was designed to soothe, yet I had never felt more agitated.

My eyes drifted to the small desk. The therapist was running late, unfortunately. I had to sit here in agony, wondering when they would come. Dad expected me to sit through this and enjoy it, somehow—the notion seemed absurd to me.

My gaze didn't glean me any answers about the therapist. I took in all of the details—the photographs of cats, the military ID, the mugs with cute phrases on them—yet I couldn't bring myself to realize what it all meant. I wasn't like Dad—I could only see. Last night had been an anomaly—a stroke of luck.

"Jade, isn't it?" A cheery young woman greeted me. Her brown hair was cut into a bob, and she was pleasantly plump.

I nodded solemnly, as if I was being sentenced to death, "Yes, that's me."

She smiled sweetly, taking a seat behind her desk, "I see you've been transferred from your old therapist…Miss…?"

"Angie Smith," I snapped slightly, "She hated me. And I hated her."

"Well, call me Agatha," she nodded again, tapping at her computer for a second, "Why don't you tell me why you cut yourself, Jade?"

My throat felt dry. My mind was sent into overload, with all of the details flooding in. Dimly, I remembered making the marks, the blood flowing down onto the floor. I remembered Dad finding me, pulling me back and bandaging me like a wounded animal. The entire time, my expression was blank, numb—I didn't care if I died.

"It's…," I paused, considering telling the truth for a brief moment, "It's nothing. Just some minor depression and anxiety. I'll get over it. I won't actually kill myself, you know, I'm not stupid."

The therapist—Agatha, I mean—chuckled slightly. Taking her glasses off of her face, she offered me a cookie—a mint meringue. "It's okay that you don't trust me yet. I know I didn't trust strangers when I first met them when I was your age."

I glanced at her again, noting the long sleeves of her sweater. It was too warm for a sweater however—perhaps…No. That couldn't be correct. There was no one else out there that could be as stupid as me. Depression never gave up. It never let you go.

"Yes, it's true," Agatha continued, "I was just like you, once."

"Why?" I questioned softly, my shaking hands curled into fists. It couldn't hurt to ask for information, and yet, my curiosity was peaked. Everyone had some sort of story—what could hers possibly be?

"My name used to be Chris," Agatha smiled good naturedly, "Now, since I've earned your respect, why don't we talk about what happened, okay?"

_Oh. _I looked at her again for a second, almost blinking with surprise. Then I nodded, trying not to make a stupid display out of myself.

"I guess," I said lamely, "It's…I don't know. I feel trapped constantly. Someone will love me, but I can't handle it…So I cut to feel free."

Agatha nodded again, "Do you know why you feel trapped, Jade?"

More images danced through my head. Patrick—the abuser—his shouting, screaming, cursing. He would yell at me whenever I would be different. Making the smallest deduction now sends me into this panic that…And then there was Ian. He was nice but…

"I don't know," I answered, shrugging my shoulders. "Maybe it's just the way I am."

"It could be," Agatha replied softly, "Or maybe, it's just the way you've learned to protect yourself. We all do things to protect ourselves. It's human."

"I wish I could feel happy," I whispered, ashamed at how my body had began to tremble. I hated therapists. They always seemed to pull out every little secret, everything that I had forgotten. The emotions would overwhelm me like a wave. "I wish I deserved to be love."

Agatha nodded again, with almost an air of sadness. "Let's talk medication, then…"

She trailed off, with the ticking clock continuing to pound silently in the background. It wasn't going to be all right.

* * *

"How was your session?" Dad asked, not even bothering to glance over at me.

He was busy with some sort of experiment. An eyeball sat on a piece of aluminum foil, which was placed on a hot plate. The temperature was fairly moderate—two hundred degrees. From the angle, I couldn't tell if it was Fahrenheit or Celsius—I assumed the former.

"_It was fine," _I considered saying. I didn't want to tell him that I hated being trapped in a room and forced to talk about my feelings. It didn't matter how kind or relatable the therapist was—in the end, they all received money in order to listen to my problems. They all gave me medication to alter the way my brain would think.

None of them could make a difference. It wasn't within their power to do so.

"I hated it," I confessed. I didn't have the energy to lie, as much as I wanted to. "I don't want to go back."

He continued working, adding another eyeball to the hot plate—it was covered in some sort of acid, I noted. "That's nice," he muttered, "You are going to return to therapy whether you enjoy it or not. It's for your mental health."

"You say as you play with dead bodies and use an excessive amount of nicotine to replace an even worse drug habit," I snapped, sitting down at the table across from him.

He flinched slightly, before continuing on with his experiments.

"You were just like me, and you didn't have to go to therapy constantly," I frowned, finding myself unable to continue to talk, "You weren't pulled out of school. You got to have a normal life."

"A normal life of heroin addiction," he smiled softly, avoiding my gaze. "Is that what you want, Jade? Do you want to be dependent on a chemical to feel happy? A chemical that destroys everything you are?"

"Maybe," I shrugged, "It's not like I'm some sort of fantastic person as it is."

He shook his head, taking a few photographs of the eyeballs. They had started to melt—at different rates, however. It was fascinating, how certain things could effect the decomposition of a body. I found myself peering towards it, smiling slightly despite myself.

"Ah, yes…You see, with the acid this one…," he continued on, muttering about kinetics and rate order and the entire chemistry behind the process. He loved talking about all sorts of relationships between two things—it was what he lived for.

"I don't think it would be too bad to end up like this," I shrugged, grabbing an eyeball from a beaker and beginning to add my own chemical mixture to it.

"Oh?" He pondered, "Most children want to be like their parents, don't they?"

I nodded, rolling the eyeball around in my hands—the acid I selected was weak enough that it shouldn't be all too harmful. It wasn't the smartest decision I had ever made—perhaps it was one of the more stupid ones.

"Maybe I'll end up like you…Dad."


	4. Chapter 4

I thought he would have given up on this school by now, yet he hadn't. Dad was convinced this was what was best for me, and that it was going to help me handle my emotions.

And that, my friend, is how I ended up staring down at the corpse of the CEO of one of London's most successful businesses. I didn't know the name—it didn't matter to me, though everyone seemed a little stressed about it. Maybe it mattered, but they didn't make my iPhone, so I didn't care.

"It's a suicide," Lestrade frowned. "I don't know why you bothered to show up for this, Sherlock."

"It's a test for Jade," Dad explained tiredly, as if he were speaking to an idiotic and troublesome child. "She's going to watch me solve the case, and then, she's going to decide if it was indeed a suicide."

"What else could it be?" Lestrade asked, his voice filled with exasperation. "Come on, we're not as stupid as you think we are, Sherlock!"

Yet Dad ignored him. He knelt next the corpse, with red blood flowing onto the pavement. The wounds were fresh and gruesome to look at, but I forced myself to keep on staring.

I'd be a pathetic excuse for Dad's daughter if I couldn't bare the sight of a corpse.

The face was almost unrecognizable, completely battered in from the hardness of the concrete. His suit was stained red, from some of the blood pooling around him. The rest of him remained immaculate, though there were a few trace tears on the sleeves of his coat.

Dad stood up from his crouch and motioned for me to follow him, heading inside of the building. He marched up to the elevator without a word, pushing the button for the top floor—the floor I couldn't even begin to imagine falling from.

"It looks like a suicide," I muttered. "Do you really have to go in here to prove it?"

"I'm not supposed to give you help during a test," Dad chuckled. "Isn't that how schooling works?"

The elevator lurched, before gliding upward, carrying us along. Thankfully, no one else stopped it—they probably had to leave the building for the investigation. I dimly remembered a bunch of people standing in a tight, roped in area, like a pack of animals.

The doors opened smoothly and Dad walked out quickly, and I had to almost run to keep up. It was awful being short.

He propped open the window, letting the breeze fall. From his pocket, he pulled out a coin and flipped it, without saying a word. I frowned, my eyebrows creasing.

"What the hell are you doing?" I questioned.

"You're really not that great at this whole testing thing, are you?" he snickered, closing the window and then stalking back towards the elevator. The doors almost sealed without me, and I dashed in, crashing into him slightly.

For his credit, he only looked moderately irritated.

He pressed the button for the floor below us, the elevator taking us there swiftly. For a moment, I imagined being trapped in the elevator for Dad, with no sign of rescue. I pondered on whether or not he would eat me to survive—or would I eat him?

The opening of the doors caused that thought to vanish, and I followed Dad like a shadow over to the window. He opened it just as he had done on the previous floor, and he flipped the same coin.

"So what, the coin is heads?" I frowned. "What's the coin got to do with anything? I mean, it's not like you can use divination to tell what happened…This isn't _Harry Potter_."

He shook his head, muttering something about pop culture corrupting my mind, and went on his way. We continued to repeat the same routine, with him opening the window and flipping a coin, and I becoming more and more confused. By the time we reached the last floor, I was about ready to cry.

There was no way that I was going to pass this test. And then, once and for all, Dad would see me as the failure I am.

"There," Dad grinned smugly, walking back outside.

Lestrade's face was slack and tired looking, clearly in need of a nicotine patch. I snickered a bit, seeing the way he stared forward as if he couldn't care anymore, and all he wanted was to collect his pay and leave.

"What's with the resting bitch face?" I teased him.

"The what?" Lestrade frowned, looking at Dad for an explanation, who decidedly ignored him.

"Never mind," I muttered, my cheeks turning a bit red.

Dad shrugged, pocketing the coin, and turned his attention to me. He always did love to be dramatic, and he certainly looked the part. His hair was ruffled slightly by the wind as he stared forward, almost completely expressionless.

"Very well then, Jade," Dad began. "Tell us all—how can you tell if this was a murder or a suicide?"

* * *

I'd already gone through the panicking stages. I will admit, I did cry a little bit—Lestrade looked mildly concerned, but no one else seemed to notice. I thought I saw Donovan try to call CPS, but I wasn't too sure—it didn't matter, anyways.

Uncle wouldn't let anyone take me away.

And so, it was just me, a corpse, and an unbelievable amount of pressure. I wasn't able to fathom things like Dad did—I didn't understand why he flipped a coin on each floor.

"It doesn't make any sense!" I groaned, sniffling slightly as I prepared myself for another bout of crying.

Dad didn't blink an eye. "It's a test. Give an answer. Was it suicide, or was it murder?"

"Murder!" I exclaimed. "Otherwise you wouldn't be bothering me with this!"

Dad chuckled, a funny twinkle in his eyes. "Now you need to prove it was murder. How would you know it was murder if you were investigating here, all by yourself?"

"I wouldn't know!" I shouted back at him.

"Throwing a fit is going to get you nowhere," Dad sighed. "Think it through logically. You're capable of it."

I groaned, feeling fresh tears come to my eye. No one was going to give me sympathy—all I could do was solve the damn puzzle already. Feeling frustrated, I again fixated on the coin toss—there was nothing scientific about it! There was no reason to flip a coin!

Wait…

Perhaps that was just it, then?

Dad never said everything he would do would be correct. Perhaps it was just an odd thing he did to throw me off track—a red herring. I stopped my sniffling, remembering the only other thing Dad did on each floor.

He opened a window.

There was a contradiction in there somewhere, and I knew it. I took a few deep breaths.

"You tossed the coin for no reason at all," I said.

Dad nodded. "Evidently."

I sighed, trying to think it all through again. In order to kill oneself, they would have had to open the window, and jump out. That means, _the window would have been left open._

So someone else had to have closed the window—and had they closed the window, they would have noticed the dead body, or something.

"It was murder because someone closed the window," I said slowly. I remembered the corpse—slight tears on the jacket. "And…The CEO was pushed—he tried to fight back, and ended up ripping his jacket in the process."

Dad gave me a rare smile—not a smirk, but a genuine smile. "You've passed your first test. You see, Lestrade, Jade is right. It was indeed murder that killed the victim. He was pushed out the open window. I'm sure you'll find one of the underlings to be guilty."

Lestrade nodded, looking awake for once. "Yeah, yeah. Of course. We'll just go look at the tapes and all, try to get a time schedule…"

"Good," Dad smirked. "I'm sure even the thickest of you lot would manage to figure it out from here. We'll be taking our leave."

"Bye, Freak!" Donovan cheered, dramatically bowing to Dad.

"Why can't we get Uncle to arrest her?" I whispered to Dad, practically having to jump to get close to his ear.

He chuckled and winked, before hailing a cab. I laughed a bit, before frowning.

He wouldn't actually get Uncle to arrest her, right?

* * *

When we arrived at the flat, the knocker on the door was straight. It wasn't crooked, and instantly, we both gulped.

Uncle was here.

I, being a completely brave and intelligent young woman, decided that Dad would have to go in first. He begrudgingly agreed to it, pushing the door open and ensuring the knocker stayed crooked. He pounded up the stairs, and I could hear Mycroft greet him.

Instead of running up, I remained downstairs, hoping to eavesdrop.

"I'm here to go through her room, of course," Mycroft explained. The odds that he didn't know I was listening were very slim, but it didn't matter to me either way. Perhaps he just didn't care enough to keep the purpose of his visit secret.

"Whatever for?" Dad posed, and I could hear him picking up his violin, starting to play. No doubt he was trying to drown out the conversation, so I couldn't hear.

It only made me want to hear it more.

I crept up a few stairs, careful to skip the one that creaked, and I flattened myself as best as I could so Uncle and Dad couldn't hear me. Fortunately, I heard Mycroft mutter something, and he continued on.

"Anything she can use to harm herself with," he explained. "We never know what night will be a danger night—you were rather the same, brother dear."

"I'm keeping an eye on her," Dad protested, starting to play a soothing melody.

"As am I, Sherlock," Mycroft cautioned. "It is best to be prepared for anything, isn't it? We need to eliminate the possibility that Jade may have an…episode again."

I gulped. I closed my eyes, and I could see the crime scene from earlier. Only this time, it wasn't a CEO lying on the ground. It was I. My face was the one that was bashed in beyond all recognition. My eyes gazed upwards mindlessly, with red painting my face.

Dad stood there, looking at me with apathy. It began to rain and he left, my body abandoned on the pavement.

I opened my eyes, wiping back a few tears that had begun to form—I thought I would have ran out of tears by now, but it was not so.

"It would be best if you cooperated with me on this, brother mine," Uncle urged. "We both want what's best for her."

"You want to avoid another scandal, so close to elections," Dad pointed out, setting down his violin noisily. "You don't want the press reporting that your niece committed suicide, hmm? It's rehab, all over again."

My chest seemed to tighten, and I was frozen in place. Did Dad really realize how far gone I was? Why was he taking me to murder scenes, if he didn't want me to kill myself? I bit my lip, waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting for them to propose to take me to a mental hospital.

But it didn't come—Uncle continued speaking, instead.

"I do not wish to see Jade harmed," Mycroft admitted. By the sound of his feet creaking against the floor, he'd gone upstairs, heading towards my room.

I let out a sigh of relief, only to find Dad heading into the tiny hall, staring down at me from where I had hidden on the stairs.

"You can come out, now," Dad said softly. "I wouldn't take my stock in what Mycroft says on any day."

"He's going to send me away, isn't he?" I asked, standing up slowly. I would have liked to be more impressive standing, but if anything, I only made Dad look taller.

I was about as tall as Uncle John.

"Of course not," Dad murmured, putting an arm around me awkwardly.

"What are you doing?" I frowned, tensing up slightly with the contact.

"I think it's called hugging—I believe it is what most parents do when their child is upset," Dad explained, his face twisted with confusion. "Do you not like it?"

"It's just…weird," I admitted. "You aren't like most parents—you run around solving cases and you get high when you see a corpse."

He seemed genuinely surprised at that. "Don't most people?"

I rolled my eyes at him, shoving past him and up the stairs. Mycroft had already vacated my room, and in a hazardous waste bag, he had everything that could have been used as a weapon. I blinked, looking at the size of it—some of my scissors were even starting to poke out of it.

"Jade," he smiled. "What a pleasant surprise."

"…I live here," I stated awkwardly.

"Why yes, of course you do," Mycroft agreed. "I've just been doing a bit of housekeeping—I know you and your father are horrible at keeping this place clean."

For once, I wished Mrs. Hudson would walk in, going on with one of her rants about how she wasn't our housekeeper. It was a little irritating, especially since she _voluntarily _would do everything a housekeeper would. She was more family to me than Uncle was.

"Thanks," I said, slightly questioningly. "We sit down and have a company meeting once a month about how we can improve—this was one of our targets."

Mycroft blinked at me.

"Would you like to join a focus group?" I grinned. "You can get a Loyalty Card!"

Dad walked in behind me, grinning and snickering. "It really is a good deal, Mycroft. We don't just pass out Loyalty Cards to anyone."

"Only fat business men," I added.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I see you two are as mature as always. Honestly, sometimes I worry about you, Sherlock, with your attempts at parenting."

He picked up his umbrella, patted me on the head, and left the flat. I wrinkled my nose at the contact, mostly for Dad's amusement. He grinned slightly, before vanishing into the kitchen, no doubt to work on some sort of experiment.

The bloody corpse flashed before my eyes again, once more slowly turning into my own face. Only now, Mycroft stared down at it in disapproval.

"_Caring isn't an advantage, Jade_," He muttered with distaste. Dad nodded in agreement with him, as they both stared down at my mangled corpse, wondering why I couldn't have ripped my own heart out in the first place.

For most people, to err is human; for them, to be human is to err.


	5. Chapter 5

_A black lake was illuminated with the lights of a castle, and a mist covered the dark night sky from view. In my hand were a battered broom and a wand—somehow, I knew that it was made of hawthorn wood, and it had unicorn hair inside of it. Two other Hogwarts students were with me—we were running from something._

"_I know the disillusionment charm!" I said, casting a spell on each of us in turn. It took me a moment to realize my companions were Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley—was I Harry Potter, then? _

_As if I had been doing it for ages, I clamored onto my broom and kicked off, soaring into the air. I had to illuminate my wand in order to keep Hermione and Ron on track with me—we couldn't get separated. We had to escape. _

"_He's catching up with us!" Hermione cried out, appearing by my side. Somehow, I could see her face, despite the charm that I had cast. _

"_Jade!" Ron screamed as a jet of green light hit him square in the chest. He melted away, ceasing to exist, and his broomstick simply fell. His wand appeared in my hand. _

"_Jade, we've got to do something!" Hermione screamed, and she tried casting a spell. I didn't know what she was doing, but I started trying to use Ron's wand. I don't know why or how, but all I succeeded in doing was making his wand (and Hermione's) fly away, out of sight. _

_I stared at my companion, unable to comprehend anything, as a jet of green light hit her head. She stared at me._

"_You could have saved us!" she cried out, somehow able to speak, and then she too vanished into nothingness. _

_It was just I, flying through a storm in the clouds. I looked over my shoulder, trying to see whom I was escaping from. I couldn't make out the face, but I saw their black coat whipping around them in the wind, paired with a matching blue scarf. _

"_Dad!" I screamed, watching a yew wand be drawn and pointed at me. _

_I let go of my broomstick, narrowly dodging the jet of green light. Instead, I plummeted through the crowds, a horrible sensation of weightlessness gripping me. His cackling was everywhere, surrounding me as I plummeted. _

_He looked down at me, his face twisted into a smug grin. "Oh, Jade, if only someone could love you."_

_I couldn't look away, but I felt my body hit the icy water of the lake, and slowly, I started to drift away. I was drowning, powerless and helpless, and there was nothing that I could do._

_Closing my eyes, I waited for death._

* * *

"Jade!"

I bolted up, panting as if I had been running for my life. The dream came back to me in an instant, too vivid for my sanity, and I started to hyperventilate. A strong pair of hands gripped my shoulders, causing me to flinch in terror.

"Jade!" Dad called, shaking me slightly to get my attention.

"What?!" I screamed, unable to catch my breath. All of the adrenaline was pumping through my system, and I couldn't calm down. It was as if knives were cutting into my skin at every moment, unable to cease, and a burning pain began to spread.

"You're having an _anxiety_ attack!" Dad stressed. "You need to calm down and take a deep breath!"

"How can I possibly calm down when you're yelling at me?!" I shouted back. He shook me a little more and a few tears sprung from my eyes. I desperately wanted to curl up into a ball and hold myself until it passed, but Dad wouldn't allow it.

He rolled his eyes slightly and picked me up with very little difficulty—I had stopped eating largely and quickly, I had gotten very thin. He held me as if I was some sort of wounded animal. I could feel his hand, very awkwardly rubbing my back.

"Take deep breaths," he instructed, trying his best to soften his voice. "It was merely a nightmare."

I nodded, hiccupping slightly. After a far longer time than I'll admit, I managed to calm down, breathing a bit shakily yet at a normal pace. Dad, seeing my improved state, set me back down on my bed.

"How'd you know?" I frowned, hiccupping again slightly.

"You were screaming," he informed me, picking up his violin—he must have been playing that before I woke up, I realized.

He started to play, a peaceful melody. I glanced up at him, realizing already what he was attempting to do—an auditory trigger. He used to run experiments on my mental state all the time when I was younger, and this song was the one he used to get me to stop throwing a fit.

My face was slightly red. "I had a nightmare."

"I deduced as much," Dad stated simply, continuing to play the calming melody.

I nodded a bit, waiting for him to leave the room and allow me to have my panic attacks in…well, in peace. He made no such motions, continuing to play the violin. And true to his theory, I did feel a little bit calmer, from the soothing music.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out, looking down at the floor in shame. "I didn't mean to disturb you—I don't want to be a burden."

He didn't answer at first, changing the melody into a brighter one. It clashed with the tone of the conversation, with beautiful crescendos and long, flowing notes.

"Who said you are a burden, Jade?" Dad questioned, letting the melody die down once again. "I am your father—I am supposed to deal with these sort of matters until you reach adulthood."

That was assuming I would reach adulthood. There was always a chance that one of Dad's cases would go wrong, and that a criminal would decide to get revenge for a loss. I would be the prime target—the only person they believed Dad could care about.

And of course, that all assumed that I didn't do it myself. I'd almost done it before, with the scarf—what's to say that I wouldn't do it again?

"Are you going to kick me out when I turn eighteen, then?" I asked, looking at him curiously.

"Surely you don't need me to answer that, Jade," Dad chuckled a bit, finally setting down his violin. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his distraction—a text from Lestrade.

A broad grin stretched across his face, accompanied with a knowing twinkle in his eye. It could only mean one thing—there was a case to solve.

"Come on, just give me another hour to sleep!" I begged, seeing the way he started to bounce slightly on his heels. "This is cruel!"

He shook his head. "You have five minutes to be ready to go, or you'll be going as you are."

Grinning to himself, he strode out of the room, practically skipping with glee. I groaned and flopped backwards on my bed, hitting the pillows and the blankets. There was never any rest in this house when there was a case about—and even when there wasn't one, there would be no stop the activity.

Dad was a man of extremes—he could never sit still. And that meant that I couldn't sit still either, as I was expected to go with him everywhere. Otherwise, he and Uncle thought I might do something stupid.

I wished that something stupid for me would be defined by reading _Twilight_, but sadly, that wasn't quite what they had in mind.

* * *

"There are reports of three other bodies that we've found so far," Lestrade prefaced, staring down at the corpse.

The lights of the aquarium reflected oddly, giving the body almost an alien like appearance. Fish swam past us harmlessly, not noticing the body on the ground, or the lack of people tapping on the walls of the tanks to get their attention.

"Does something seem a bit _fishy _to you, Dad?" I joked, grinning widely with pride at the comment.

Lestrade groaned a bit, while Dad ignored it, instead bending down next to the corpse. "You said there were three others, Graham?"

"It's _Greg_," Lestrade pleaded. "Yes, four bodies in total. All killed in the same manner."

"A serial killer," I said, finding it hard not to smile. There were certain things my father and I both enjoyed—I found myself captivated by the criminal mind. As much as I knew I should fear them, their darkness was compelling, a mystery waiting to be solved.

Dad stood up, holding a single playing card. He turned it over, revealing that it was the two of hearts. A bit of blood stained the corner of it, but beyond that, it wasn't touched at all.

"Was there a playing card found on all of the bodies?" Dad asked, dropping the card into an evidence bag and sealing it shut.

Even Dad tried to avoid contaminating the evidence when possible, despite the popular opinion of most of the grunts working at Scotland Yard.

"Yes," Lestrade nodded. "It's baffling—but I think it's some sort of calling card, a way for the serial killer to proudly identify his work as his own."

Dad nodded. I grinned a bit, recalling the calling card idea I had told Dad all about—a badger puppet. Whenever you kill someone, you just leave the puppet there, and everyone would be completely confused. He had merely rolled his eyes at me and told me that if I ever killed someone, he would know because I had shared it with him.

I pretended that I didn't care, but I mentally made a note to put a unicorn puppet there instead.

"What are the other locations?" Dad asked.

"An electronics store, a diner, and a jail," Lestrade responded gruffly. "We can't seem to find any connection between the locations—might have been random, I suppose."

Dad frowned and continued to pester Lestrade with questions. I instead went over to look at the corpse—no one else was doing it, so I might as well try to figure a few things out.

It was a young girl with black hair. She had an awful case of acne and a pair of ill-fitting glasses was shoved onto her face. Her skin was pale, and I could see some sign of stretch marks—she'd been rather heavy at one point, I deduced. Her clothing was fairly typical for a teenager, but Dad probably would have deduced she was from Mars or something.

To me, she just looked cool—attractive, as well.

"Stabbed in the heart?" I muttered, looking at the knife. It did seem to be that way—a giant bloodstain had spread from that general area. Her death must have been instant, then, but it would be up to the medical examiner to determine that.

"Yes," Dad answered, before returning to his conversation with Lestrade.

I stood up, having learned almost everything that I could. Dad would probably go off on a rant I wouldn't understand later—I just had to be around when he did, and then, it would start to make sense.

"Is that all you want to look at for this scene, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. Let's go to the electronics store, shall we?"

* * *

The electronics store wasn't nearly as ethereal feeling as the aquarium. All of the store employees had left—someone had left a tip to go check out the store. Beyond the corpse on the floor, there was no sign of a break-in.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

"Another girl," I said, looking down at the body.

She had black hair too, with blue eyes gazing up lazily. Dad reached down carefully with a pair of gloves, peeling off a contact lens from the right eye. He placed it inside a bag, handing it over to Lestrade wordlessly.

"The last one had glasses," I offered, trying to be helpful.

"It's a pattern," Dad said, picking up the playing card. "Four of hearts. No blood on this one—interesting."

"Interesting?" Lestrade questioned. "It's downright insane, all of this! How am I supposed to make sense of someone who likes to play poker while offing teenage girls?"

I glanced down at the girl again—she was pretty, too, wearing a gorgeous blue dress. She reminded me a bit of Alice in Wonderland, with the way it fit her. Only there was no curiosity in her face—only sadness.

"She self harmed," I said, delicately picking up the arm of the dead girl. "Look, these cuts are self inflicted."

Donovan frowned a bit, staring at me. I saw her motion for Lestrade to come towards her, and they exchanged something in hushed voices. A few tears came to my eyes—they were talking about me, no doubt. Gossiping about how I couldn't handle anything, and that I only knew how to identify those scars because I had them myself.

"Ignore them," Dad commanded, redirecting my attention. "Examine the wound, Jade."

The wound was identical, just as Lestrade said. The girl had been stabbed in the heart, causing her to die pretty much instantaneously. She might not have even known she was going to be attacked.

"It's the same," I said.

"Look closer," Dad prompted. "You didn't notice this at the last scene—notice it now."

Frowning, I took another look at the dried blood around the corpse. The pattern was almost the same, aside from obvious differences that happen when you stab different people.

"She didn't die recently," I said. "Her wound isn't fresh—but she hasn't started to decompose yet, so it was recently but…not within the timeframe that Lestrade got the call."

"This is staged," Dad explained. "Each of the locations and the calling cards are crucial to the puzzle. The stabbing in the heart is key too—though likely their killing ritual."

Lestrade wandered back over, looking at Dad and I in turn. He seemed to be getting more and more used to having a teenager on his crime scenes, though I doubt he wanted to go tell his superiors about it.

"The two other victims are also teenage girls with black hair, pale, had a history of mental trauma from what we can see," Lestrade said. "We can go see the crime scene shortly."

"What playing cards were found?" I asked.

Lestrade paused. "At the jail, we found the ace. And at the diner, we found the three."

Dad grimaced slightly, as if he had leapt to a conclusion he wished to avoid. I looked over at him questioning, but I didn't see my father standing there, ready to protect me and solve a case.

I saw the dark wizard from my dream, chasing me down like an animal, ready to kill me at any cost.

"_Oh, Jade, if only someone could love you."_


	6. Chapter 6

"This isn't going to be good for business, Angelo," Dad cautioned, stepping inside of the restaurant.

It could very loosely be called a diner—the reason why Lestrade chose to use that phrase mystified us both. Angelo's happened to be a favorite place of mine, as I was easily persuaded by almost everything and anything Italian. It was glorious.

"Eh, I've got Sherlock Holmes on the case!" Angelo chortled, clapping Dad on the back. "Couldn't ask for a better detective."

I stared up at him awkwardly, wondering if he even noticed I was there. People tended to forget about me at times, distracted by the genius detective in the funny hat.

"Oh, and you're good too, Jade," Angelo added distractedly, before wondering off.

My face felt a little warm, and I bit my lip. Dad completely ignored it, striding over to the corpse. I looked it down, mentally recalling how to date a body. It too was no longer bleeding, the blood stilled. Pulling out a pair of plastic gloves from my pocket, I snapped them on, crouching down to the body.

"There's algor, livor, and rigor mortis," I announced, feeling the stiffness of the body. "No sign of bloating, however, and there aren't any insects."

"In English?" Donovan snapped, looking at me with an almost jeering frown. "This job is a lot more than saying fancy words, kid!"

I gritted my teeth, standing up slightly to at least be on eye level with her. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dad, waiting to see the result of this.

"Algor mortis is the term for the cooling of the body. Livor mortis is for discoloration. I'm sure you know what rigor mortis means—you watch enough CSI, don't you?" I snapped back, glaring at her intensely.

She didn't try to say anything back, her pride being hurt a little bit. Lestrade looked over, attempting to ease the tension with his smile—a bit out of place at the scene of a murder.

"What about the bugs? It's a controlled environment here, yeah?" Lestrade questioned.

"I'm no expert on forensic entomology," I admitted. "But bugs have a knack for finding a body no matter what—they set in within the first twenty four hours, usually. Different kinds settle in too."

I chuckled a bit, remembering the trip to that United States Dad had taken me on. He'd taken me to the Body Farm, located in Tennessee. It was lively—well, running, at least. People would donate their bodies for study, and forensic anthropologists would work with them, noting the different bugs that would show up.

It was fascinating—even if I wasn't too fond of the skin slippage that occurred for those who had been dead for a week.

"Like what?" Lestrade presses, looking genuinely interested. It allowed Dad to do whatever he wished without objection, so I sighed, content to entertain the Detective Inspector.

"Maggots show up first," I explained, recalling the body of a dead nurse that Dad and I had gotten to experiment with at the farm. They had eaten her eyes and carefully placed some eggs there, ready to hatch.

"And after the maggots, the beetles show up," I continued. "The adult ones will go after dry tissues, but the little ones like the wet ones."

Lestrade shuddered, while Donovan's face was turning a soft shade of green. "And after the beetles, you get your carnivores, coming in for the meat of the tissues. Rodents typically finish up after them."

"You forgot the blowflies and the cheese flies," Dad sighed, his tone filled with disappointment. "But otherwise, you are correct."

_Damn. _I held back the tears that were rapidly coming, scolding myself for caring so much. It shouldn't matter if I had memorized the pattern of insects descending on a corpse after death. No one else would be upset by it—it wouldn't be important to them.

Yet it was to me.

"So all of this, this means that the body isn't more than a day old," Lestrade clarified.

I nodded, stepping down again to look at the body. The wounds were exactly the same every time, a pool of blood from being stabbed in the heart. The playing card had already been removed and placed into an evidence bag, but it was enough.

It really was a serial killer.

"They're trying to send us a message," Dad declared, grabbing the evidence bag with the playing card. "These playing cards—they're very important."

"What, they're trying to tell us they want to play poker?" Donovan snorted.

"Maybe they're trying to tell us why they're doing this," Dad countered. "As I've said before, genius needs an audience. Serial killers are dying to get caught and be recognized."

Lestrade nodded, carefully taking the playing card back from Dad. Dad huffed at them, rolling his eyes in irritating.

"God, you lot can be so thick sometimes!" he shouted, rushing out of the restaurant.

The two officers stared at me expectantly. I couldn't decide if they were pitying me or blaming me—did they think I was just like Dad? Or perhaps they realized that there was indeed something awful lurking inside of me?

I'm not that different than the serial killer, after all.

* * *

It had taken everyone a while, but we had finally caught up to Dad at the jail. He had bullied the guards into letting him inside, showing of Uncle Mycroft's ID as proof.

Lestrade had simply sighed, motioning for everyone—including me—to be allowed inside as well to assist "Mycroft" in the investigation.

"She isn't a convict herself," Dad announced, not even bothering to walk up as we walked into the narrow prison cell. "No history of drug use either. She's very much a dull, ordinary person."

"She has a dog," I offered, glancing at the stray hairs on her clothes. They reminded me of Lestrade's hair—might have been a husky, then, I supposed.

Dad sighed a bit, clearly a bit on edge. I bit my tongue, looking down at the corpse. Her black hair was a bit ratty and unkempt, and all of her clothing was coated in the dog fur. Whatever kind of dog it was, it must have shed a lot.

Lestrade whistled. "You know, they all look like you, Jade."

Dad froze, spinning around to stare at Lestrade. "They do, don't they? All of the girls appear similar—it's probably part of the message. I doubt it has anything to do with Jade."

"Yeah, it's silly," I laughed, concealing the nerves that Lestrade had ever so delicately awakened. Gulping a bit, I started looking desperately for anything about the girl that would prove she was nothing like me.

I wasn't very successful in that task, needless to say.

"Electronics store, diner, aquarium, jail," Lestrade said, holding the playing card. "That's them, put in order…"

He stared expectantly at Dad, waiting for a whirlwind of deductions or insults to come flying at him from the one comment. Instead, Dad bounced up from his crouch on the floor, putting away his magnifying glass.

"It's code," he announced smugly. "The hearts are the clue—some people believe that if you boil down a name, you can come up with a number that says something about its personality."

"So?" Lestrade frowned. "Look, Sherlock, you don't need to make things up. It's alright!"

"I'm not making it up—it is a belief system," Dad corrected. "The numbers for each of the locations, in the order you read, are: nine, five, one, eight."

What on Earth was he going on about? I frowned, wondering if perhaps Dad had finally lost it. If he was resorting to ancient fortune telling systems, perhaps he was stuck.

"Those are heart numbers," Dad sighed, getting more and more exasperated. "They were stabbed in the hearts, they have heart playing cards!

"What are we supposed to do with those numbers?" Lestrade pressed, clearly not buying it.

"It's code—the message is encrypted somehow within those numbers," Dad frowned, before his eyes widened slightly.

He pushed past us, running out of the cell as fast as he could. I blinked, before realization dawned upon me as well. Using Dad's method, the numbers overall would combine to be a five—the number of the diner.

"We have to go to Angelo's!" I explained, still slightly uncertain. "Dad thinks that the murderer might be going back there to leave another body…I think. I'm honestly not quite sure if this is right…"

Lestrade shrugged and waved his hand in the air, signaling for his team to clear out and return to the diner. It seemed to be good enough for him, to go on what was almost a complete whim.

Dad was a liar when he said he only used sound scientific principles—arithmancy was highly improbable of being the system for the code. Only an insane person would decide whom they were going to kill based off of voodoo.

Well, I suppose murderers weren't exactly sane.

* * *

Bounding out of the car, I saw that the lights were still off at Angelo's. Crime scene tape still decorated the door, but it wouldn't stop anyone from entering. I glanced around quickly, and not seeing any sign of Dad, I charged into the restaurant.

"Jade!" Lestrade screamed, just as I pushed the door open. I turned my head to gaze at him, realizing that I should have let Scotland Yard come in instead.

Oops.

"We're too late!" Dad shouted in frustration, kicking over a table from somewhere in front of me. I returned my gaze, peering inside of the empty establishment. I couldn't see Dad—he must have been farther back, out of my sight.

Letting the door fall shut behind me, the room was thrown into darkness again. Gulping slightly, I had the uncanny notion that I wasn't alone in here.

"Hello?" I called out, instantly regretting it.

No one answered—Dad probably couldn't be bothered. And if there really were someone else inside here, they wouldn't announce themselves. They would lure me into a false sense of security before they attacked—even the dumb criminals knew that.

I took a deep breath, walking forward in the darkness. Scotland Yard would charge in here in a moment—it would be reasonably safe.

"Dad?" I called out again, before walking into a wall. I grimaced, shaking out my foot, when I heard a door creak open.

Freezing in place, I strained my hearing, trying to see if anyone else was in here. I ceased breathing, in order to see if someone else was in here with me.

And very softly, I could hear someone inhale and exhale.

"I know you're there," I said, a bit stupidly. "You're the serial killer, aren't you?"

No one answered. I walked forward, mesmerized a bit by the eeriness of it all. One day, perhaps my fascination with the dark would be the death of me—but right now, I wasn't thinking about all of that.

Though, curiosity did kill the cat.

"It's okay," I said, smiling, even though no one could see my face in all of this darkness. "I'm not going to hurt you—my name's Jade. Jade Holmes."

I could hear the door of the restaurant open, and a few members of Scotland Yard chatter a bit outside. They weren't in too much of a rush—I'd have a few more minutes, chatting here in the darkness.

How awkward it would be if no one were there.

"What's your name?" I asked, a bit naively. "I won't turn you in."

Taking another step forward, I felt something whistle through the air, before lodging itself in my stomach. I didn't feel the pain at first, and as soft as the wind itself, I could hear someone whisper. "My name is Annette."

I fell to the ground, uncomprehending the enormous pain that started to explode in my stomach. A small trail of blood started to drip onto the floor, and the room was flooded with light as shocked members of Scotland Yard rushed over to me.

"Hello," I said deliriously, closing my eyes softly.

Then there was nothing.

* * *

There was the sound of a monitor, beeping softly. I could hear a few hushed voices, speaking about something urgently. I didn't open my eyes, relaxing ever muscle, in order to appear asleep.

It was a trick I often used, though most of the time, Dad didn't fall for it.

"I think it's best for her," one of the voices urged.

I groaned, opening my eyes wearily. My suspicions were proven correct—it was indeed Uncle, dressed in his fancy yet stuffy suit. Across from him was Dad, his hands clasped as if in prayer as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't praying, though—he was merely thinking.

"Good morning, Jade," Dad greeted me pleasantly, sitting up slightly from his own position.

"I was shot?" I asked them, blinking and yawning a bit. It was a struggle to keep my eyes open, as I desperately wanted to slip back into sleep.

Now wasn't the time, however. Uncle was here—anything could happen.

"Yes," Uncle frowned. "And it's for this very reason that I believe your safety is not being considered enough."

"She is plenty safe," Dad argued. "She's with me."

"She was shot in your company," Uncle disagreed. "I've secured her a spot at the finest boarding school in England—your old stomping ground, Sherlock. They've gone co-ed."

Dad snorted derisively. "Please. That place was hell. Jade won't be going there."

"Can Jade speak for herself?" I asked timidly, straining to sit up. It sent sharp pains shooting throughout my body, so I gave up.

"Of course," Dad said, before Myroft could interrupt. I grinned a bit, looking at the vexed expression on Uncle's face—it would have only been better if he had a mustache.

I could have called it Sebastian.

"I'd like to stay where I am," I said slowly. "But thank you for your offer, Uncle. I'm actually…feeling better."

Mycroft frowned, raising an eyebrow at me skeptically. I tried my best to hold my ground, smiling up at him while wincing from the bullet wound. My stomach probably wouldn't feel the same for a while, I realized.

"You should know, Jade," Uncle said, looking a bit smug. "They've had to take you off of your medications, due to the injury. You won't be taking that drug for a while—I hope you can cope."

"Of course I can," I replied cheekily, though my heart was sinking. Without those drugs, I couldn't properly control myself.

I might kill myself.

"I'm glad to hear it," Uncle said briskly, grabbing his umbrella. He muttered some sort of excuse about politics and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Dad glanced at the door, before passing the phone over to me. "Your mother called."

I nodded, not needing to ask why he kept it from Mycroft. The official story was that Mum was dead—killed by terrorists or something of the sort. It was better for her if the British Government had no clue of her existence.

"I'll go into my mind palace," Dad added, and resumed his former pose. It was the most privacy he was willing to give me.

Mum picked up almost instantly, as soon as I dialed her. "Mum? I heard you called?"

"_Hello, darling,"_ Mum cooed a bit. I could picture her, dressed elegantly in some fancy hotel in New York. I smiled a bit—I loved my mother.

"What is it you wanted?" I asked, sitting up despite the strain on my injury.

"_I heard you're chasing Hallow,"_ Mum said smoothly, her voice sounding cool and silky. _"I need to come see you—privately, of course. We need to talk."_

I paused. I hadn't seen my mother in years. She tended not to visit, and all I heard from her was a phone call on my birthday. And even then, I had a sinking suspicion it was at Dad's insistence. But despite all of that, I couldn't help but love her.

She was my mother.

"Sure," I replied. "I'm at Maida Vale hospital—I was shot."

"_I'll be there tomorrow," _Mum reassured me, laughing a bit. _"You really are your father's daughter."_


	7. Chapter 7

There was a soft tap on the door. I opened my eyes slowly, hoping that it was a nurse, ready to give me some more painkillers. Dad made it look so easy, recovering from being shot—he did it on a monthly basis at times.

But this, this hurt like hell. It felt like my soul was being purified by fire. Of course, that assumed that I had a soul—I was pretty sure that once I died, my eyes would open to either darkness or flames. And even then, I couldn't imagine something more painful than this.

Maybe Dad just got high whenever he was shot—perhaps that would be a possible solution.

"Jade?" a rich, alto voice called out, accompanied by the sound of the door creaking open. Heels clacked against the floor precisely four times, before the door shut softly.

Suddenly, the hospital bedroom seemed far more regal. The floors almost looked like they shimmered, and I glanced up at the succubus that glided into the room. Her hair was braided back, elegant and playful. Her makeup was pristine and divine—various shades of scarlet.

"Why, if it isn't the harlot!" I grinned, giggling slightly to myself.

"You and your names," Mum rolled her eyes, walking forward gracefully and sitting down on my hospital bed. "You act like I'm some common whore begging on the street."

"You aren't?" I gasped, chuckling more at Mum's face. It was covered with disapproval, and her ears flared out slightly. It was comical—and it felt natural.

Mum pursed her lips slightly. "I suppose you don't want to hear what the garish whore has to say about Hallow, now do you?"

Groaning slightly, I flopped back against the bed. I bit my cheek, trying not to whimper from the pain caused by simply moving. They told me that in reality, I'd gotten off lucky—the bullet avoided all major organs. It simply passed through muscle tissue.

I'd be fully recovered, shortly, they said. Shortly meant three weeks. It was another circle of hell.

"Unless you've changed your mind?" Mum asked, clicking her tongue slightly.

"It would be nice," I said, pretending to be slightly disinterested. But truly, it was fascinating—all I knew about this serial killer is that their name was Hallow. I had no idea about what motivated them to kill, and even then, I wouldn't understand it. All I knew was there was a force filled with gloomy ecstasy, with ideas and thoughts that an ordinary person would never fathom.

It was beautiful.

"Hallow was a client of mine at a point," Mum began, her gaze boring into the wall reflectively. "Her name was Annette Hallows—with an s. She hated being called anything other than Hallow, though."

The picture in my mind of Hallow blossomed—a dark haired beauty, with mesmerizing eyes. She was cast in shadow, with all other features obscured in the darkness. A tiny smile—the shade of oxygenated blood—cut through the darkness.

"How often did you see her?" I asked curiously, tapping my fingers restlessly against the hospital bed.

"Often," Mum smirked a bit, seeming slightly coy. She drifted off into a reverie for a moment. "But Hallow was never satisfied—she wanted to be a god."

The smile I imagined grew wider and wider, and a throne made of shadows appeared. Hallow lounged on in gracefully, identical to the photographs I'd seen of Moriarty in the Tower of London. I shivered slightly, not afraid, but _excited_.

"She had an obsession with power and knowledge," Mum continued. "She asked me about your father, convinced that I would know something about him—I never told her anything, of course."

I frowned a bit. "You didn't tell her anything?"

"Of course," Mum laughed, rolling her eyes unnaturally. "All information comes with a price!"

"What was the price?" my frown deepened. Mum wouldn't let power over someone go—not even to protect my father. It wasn't in her nature to be protective and caring.

Mum paused a bit. "Annette Hallows is the orphaned daughter of two American film stars—you can find her on Wikipedia."

"Mum, what did you tell her?" I seethed, sitting up slightly. I tried to look convincingly frightening, with my sticky hair and oily skin. Squeezing my left eye half shut, I imagined that I had either become incredibly fearsome.

Mum laughed a bit.

"You need to proceed with caution when dealing with her," Mum said, ignoring my questions. "As dominating as she is, she loves being challenged."

Mum winked a bit at me, and for a moment, I could see her the way Uncle could. I could see the slight nervousness and the way her face looked flush. And in a blink of an eye, it all vanished, descending back into meaningless obscurity.

"You're lying, Mum," I said sourly. "Please just tell me what you told Hallow, or I'll do something despicable to you."

"From your hospital bed?" Mom laughed, though she paled slightly. "I told her about you, Jade. She became very inquisitive—quite curious."

I hit my hand against my face, groaning. Partially, the response was from the pain, and also from the stupidity. The parallel was too obvious to me—feeding information about me to a psychopath?

"They say if we don't learn from history, we're doomed to repeat it," I sniffled, looking Mum dead in the eye. "You told her my entire life story, just for what, a few quid?"

She avoided my gaze, blinking slightly. For once, I was the one in power—a change that she was unaccustomed to. Mum spent her entire life on top, carefully plotting and planning.

Was this potentially part of her plan? Did she love Hallow?

"You act like I was supposed to be the hero, the savior," Mum replied quietly, standing up from her position on the hospital bed. "I am not a good person, Jade."

"I know," I responded, without missing a beat. "I thought you wouldn't sell Dad and I out like that."

Mum frowned slightly, small lines appearing in her face. "Annette will not hesitate to kill you, Jade. Be careful."

And then Mum turned her back on me, walking swiftly out of the room. The door shut softly behind her and I was completely alone, as if no one had interrupted my sleep. For a moment, I forgot the potent pain in my stomach.

"Love you too, Mum," I muttered, turning over with a sigh. I stared at the wall, memorizing each little detail.

At least it was always there for me.

* * *

The next few weeks were spent in utter boredom. Three times a day, a nurse would come in and tend to the wound, as well as determining how many painkillers I would need. Food would be brought to me, a bland sandwich with horrid tasting milk. Sometimes, Dad would come with something better to eat—such as a cookie or some candy.

But most of all, I was bedridden. I wasn't allowed to leave and do things, while Dad spent most of his time working on the case. He left homework assignments with me to do, but even those too grew dull after a while.

So once the nurse finally cleared me to go back home, I was ecstatic.

"The injury is mostly healed," the nurse nodded, placing a fresh bandage on the wound. "You'll need to come back for a follow up appointment in about a month or so."

Dad smiled a bit, ruffling my hair as I hopped down from the bed. It felt great, not lying around and doing nothing—a statement I never thought I would agree with.

"May I take her home?" Dad asked politely, showing respect and courtesy for another individual for once.

The nurse nodded, smiling a bit. I didn't wait any longer, rushing out of the door and heading down the hallway. Dad caught up to me, and we made our way outside, to where Lestrade was waiting in his car.

He honked at us as we approached, and reached his head out, beaming.

"Jade! You look all better!" he said enthusiastically.

"I know, I'm not holy anymore!" I joked. "They said I can go back to doing things—like helping Dad out with the case…"

Lestrade's smile vanished for a moment, before reappearing. He swallowed a bit.

"What?" I frowned. "I'm perfectly able to work on the case…I'm not made out of glass."

His gaze darted towards Dad for a moment, before returning to me. "You know, we aren't really supposed to have children on crime scenes—"

"I'm Jade fucking Holmes," I frowned. "You're just saying this because I was shot. The odds that I'll get shot again are rather low. It doesn't get higher and higher with each injury."

Dad rolled his eyes slightly, silently disagreeing with my evidence. However, he nodded at Lestrade, opening the backdoor of the car for me.

"I need an assistant, Lestrade," he explained, getting inside of the vehicle after me. "Jade is the best one around—John's been busy of late."

Lestrade sighed a bit, yet preceded to drive the two of us. From the direction we were heading, he was taking us home—there must not have been much left to investigate at this point.

Now it was all a matter of waiting for another body to drop.

"I heard Anna is being a bit of a handful," Lestrade commented idly. "He and Mary are having a bit of trouble with her—she's almost a teenager."

"Anastasia never struck me as the rebellious type," Dad frowned.

The conversation died, plunging the rest of the rest of the car ride into forced silence. The gloomy specter that I had dreamed up earlier came to mind once more. The enigma of Annette Hallows wasn't one that I could solve alone.

And yet, something kept me from bringing Annette Hallows up to Dad—a small part of me that wanted to prove myself to him. Maybe then, he would be proud of me.

* * *

"Hold on, what's all those people doing out there?" I exclaimed, peering out the window of the car.

A mob of people stood in outside of the entrance to the flat. They were armed with pens and paper, working themselves into an increasingly hysterical state. A good number of them carried cameras with them, desperately flashing away as Lestrade stopped the car for us.

"You've got a gauntlet to run," Lestrade chuckled. "Best of luck to you. You're going to be in the public view, Jade."

I froze a bit, biting my lip. "I've never been in the public view before—Uncle helped to make sure that very little people would know about me."

"Didn't think the press was healthy for you," Dad admitted. He frowned sharply, gazing at the gaggle of photographers as an obstacle to be overcome.

"We might as well get this over with," he sighed, rolling his eyes once more. "It seems you will be getting a public image—a curse I would not wish on my worst enemy."

He opened up the door to the car, the sound of snapping growing marginally louder. He pushed past the reporters with ease, and I struggled to catch up with them. The flashing lights were blinding and I found them calling my name.

"Jade! Is it true you've dropped out of high school?"

"What's it like being the daughter of Sherlock Holmes?"

"You were shot on a case! Care to comment?"

"Taking after the old man?"

"Are you some sort of genius too?"

"What's it like to live with Sherlock Holmes, never being able to live up to him?"

I made eye contact with a needy blonde, her eyes bulging out of her skull. She shoved a microphone in my face, a camera swinging over her shoulder.

"Jade! Care to comment on your injury? Is it true that you've turned to drugs?"

"I…I….No!" I stammered, trying to walk forward, but they were everywhere. In all of the confusion, I couldn't see Dad—I could hardly see the door of the flat. It was like being in the center of a swarm, unable to move, unable to see, unable to hear.

"Got a special something, eh lovely?"

"Yeah! Smile for the camera!"

"You'd be prettier if you smiled, Jade!"

My breathing started to accelerate, as the space of the questions and the photos become more and more rapid. I didn't even have time to think, stuck on the sidewalk in front of the flat.

"Who's your mother, Jade?"

"Do your parents love each other?"

"Did Sherlock have to pay?"

"Does Sherlock force you to go on cases?"

"Is it true your father is a sociopath?"

Numbly, I shook my head, my heart beating faster than ever before. I tried to take a step forward, and I stumbled, falling to the ground. Over my shoulder, I could see the cameras and jeering faces following me. I started to hyperventilate, whimpering as I crawled backwards, towards the door.

"Leave me alone!" I screamed. A few tears fell from my eyes, yet they didn't stop.

_Think, Jade…What will make them leave you alone…_

"I'M A RAGING HOMOSEXUAL!" I shouted, the silence ringing out for a moment. I turned and fled into the flat, slamming the door behind me, right as the flurry of snapping began once again.

Letting out a deep breath, I slid to the floor and sobbed.

* * *

"This…this makes no sense," Dad frowned, staring with confusion. "It's impossible."

"I know!" I agreed, grinning from ear to ear. "Bet you didn't see that coming, did you?"

Dad nodded again, clasping his hands in front of him. "He died. He can't be back. And look at him, not a scratch on him!"

"Well, he is a bit thirsty…" I joked, delighting in my father's confusion.

He got up, pacing back and forth. Eventually he stopped, turning to stare at me. "Faked his death? No? What other solution is there? You can't just come back from the dead!"

Picking up the remote, I turned the television set off. "Well, on _Supernatural_, you can. Don't worry—they explain how Dean is alive later."

Dad snorted and rolled his eyes, sitting back down onto the couch. He was positively sulking, his legs stretched out either like a cat or a child. "This is why I never watch telly. It's highly unrealistic."

"And you mean to tell me it was completely realistic when their mother burned up on the ceiling?" I laughed, prodding Dad's stomach with my toe.

He rolled over in response, muttering some long rant about a perfectly logical explanation for the death of the mother. Eventually, he went onto a theory about how Dean invented the entire universe, as a way to comfort himself after his parents perished.

"Perhaps I invented you," I teased. "In another world, I bet this is a show on telly—a mad detective and a depressed teenager try to catch a serial killer."

Dad frowned a bit. "Your voice tone changed."

_Damn_. I'd forgotten, almost, how hard it was to hide things from him.

"Just the paparazzi," I lied. "I wasn't ready for that…It was awful."

Dad glanced at me, a thin eyebrow arched. I smiled back awkwardly, wondering how long until he realized that I knew—that I knew everything about the serial killer. Mum was right—she was indeed on Wikipedia. During my stay in the hospital, I had memorized her Wikipedia page.

An orphan. A scholar. A millionaire.

And unbeknownst to most, a murderer.

The photograph, however, was what I could still see when I closed my eyes. Her face was filled with bored sadness, framed with delicate brown hair. Her black eyes stared forward, as if nothing in the world could cause them to light up. Petite and small, it was hard to imagine that she would be a killer.

"They can be annoying," Dad commented, glancing away. "The last thing we need is a public image."

"We?"

"Of course," Dad chuckled. "Consulting detectives—the only ones in the world."

I blushed a bit, looking down at the floor. Pride swelled up inside of me, filling me with happiness—a feeling far too foreign for my age. I stole a glance over at Dad, only to realize that he had already left the room. I was alone.

I then turned my glance towards the door, determination filling me. I stood up quietly and headed on down the stairs, throwing on my jacket and gloves.

It was time to make Dad proud to call me his daughter—to not regret the product of human error.


	8. Chapter 8

The door shut behind me and I breathed out, my breath hanging in front of me like smoke. I stared at it a moment, before blinking and recalling my task—to catch the serial killer. Even though I knew it was Annette, I couldn't prove it.

A dead woman's word hardly stood up as evidence in court—I would need to find hard facts.

And where better to go than return to the scene of the crime, to Angelo's?

"Excuse me!" I shouted out, waving my hand in the air. A few drops of rain had started falling, and I bit my lip. The cabs flew past me without a second glance. I huffed and tried again.

No response. "Come on!" I shouted. "You lot can bloody see me! Cab, please!"

Stomping my foot down, the rain continued to pour, quickly drenching me. None of the cabs would stop for me—I'd begun to suspect Uncle. It would be like him, to somehow arrange it so none of the cabs in London would stop for me.

Or maybe, they didn't want to stop for a tiny teenager…

Shaking my head slightly, I knew I had to catch this serial killer somehow. I glanced around the area, noticing a bicycle sticking out of a dumpster—_perfect!_ After a quick sprint, I pulled it out of the dumpster, likely looking like a lunatic. The bicycle was in perfect condition, and I got on it, pedaling furiously towards Angelo's.

A slight wind ran through my greasy hair, blowing it luxuriously behind me. A small smile crept up on my face at the feeling of freedom—and it didn't even come with a fee, like a cab would. A few people glanced at me with confusion, as it wasn't all that common for people to ride a bike in the rain.

"Good evening!" I chuckled, shouting to a woman clad entirely in pink. She looked like a hairy toad, and she frowned at me.

"Young lady!" she shouted, turning her head to watch me as I pedaled by. "That is entirely inappropriate behavior! Why, you have no sense of propriety!"

I took one hand off of the handlebars of the bicycle, flipping the bird at the ugly pink lady. I could hear her outraged scream, but I didn't care. Giggling, I continued to pedal away, completely pleased with myself.

"Excuse me!" I shouted, as I neared a large group of men. And by that, I mean they were all burly, wearing plaid, and carried bulky objects. For a brief moment, I felt a sensation of fear.

"Sorry, little lady!" one of them chortled gruffly, stepping aside so I could pass. He smiled at me, a surprisingly warm smile, and returned to his conversation.

I let out a sigh of relief, taking a turn at the next intersection. Angelo's wouldn't be too far from here—perhaps Hallow was waiting there for me, as she had been before.

Or maybe there would be another body there, giving more clues to the puzzle…In the best case scenario, there would be DNA trace evidence—perhaps fingerprints or a hair. Yet I knew that there would be nothing—or perhaps, I wanted there to be nothing. I wanted her to be clever.

"Hey, you'd look prettier if you smiled, love!" a voice jeered, and I turned my head to look.

It was a tall boy, his head covered with a beanie hat. Stubble covered his face, and one of his arms had a beautiful tattoo sleeve. He grinned a bit at me—someone else would have found him cute. I never found boys cute—not anymore, at least. But regardless, the idea of finding love, it was…

No. I shuddered, and I turned my gaze. I expected to see the ground whizzing by me, as I sped along on my bicycle. Instead, there was air. It was all moving slowly, yet in a blur—I could see myself being launched. I could see the bicycle falling to the ground limply, the wheels still spinning.

I could see the concrete, and then, I felt the pain. I skidded, scrapping almost every part of my body on contact. The pain stung and I groaned a bit.

A hand appeared, offering to help me up. It was the boy.

"Thank you," I muttered, grabbing his hand.

He nodded. "You should be more careful—it isn't safe at night to be chasing after serial killers."

He winked at me, and I could see the tip of a needle extend from his other hand. Before I could react, it was jabbed into my hand. I squirmed and struggled, yet in a matter of seconds, my body wouldn't respond to my commands anymore.

I was helpless.

"Sweet dreams, Jade Holmes," he chuckled. "You should have listened to your mother."

* * *

I opened my eyes, finding myself face to face with my father. I blinked a bit, my mouth tasting like a cotton ball, and I tried to sit up. A soft scream wrenched its way through me, and I gingerly felt the bullet wound.

Luckily, it hadn't ripped open—the painkillers must have just worn off.

Gritting my teeth, I got to my feet, my hands bound with zip ties. At one point, Dad had taught me a technique to escape from them. I was so fortunate to have completely forgotten how.

"What is this place?" I whispered, walking forward towards where I had seen Dad. I squinted a bit, and realized it was a newspaper clipping of him. It detailed his dramatic return from the grave, with the caption: "SHERLOCK HOLMES LIVES."

He had been captured in profile, his face twisted slightly in annoyance. I smiled slightly, tempted to read the text. Stepping forward, I could just barely make out the first paragraph.

_SHERLOCK HOLMES was thought to have committed suicide off of St. Bartholomew's Hospital almost two years ago. It is now confirmed that the great detective is indeed alive and has returned to work with Dr. John Watson. Dr. John Watson has recently announced his engagement to Ms. Mary Morstan. Mr. Holmes did not give a comment about his reaction, and instead wished to inform the criminals of London that, "the game is on!"_

Smoothing the paper again, I turned my head slightly, spotting a glass case. Inside of it, there sat a deerstalker—a death Frisbee, as Dad liked to call them. There was a tiny white tag, labeling it.

_Recovered deerstalker hat, the very first one that the Daily Mail photographed Sherlock Holmes wearing. _

It sent a shiver down my spine, and I continued to turn my head. More and more things relating to my dad caught my eye—I could see a riding crop, claimed to have been retrieved from the morgue that Molly worked at. And next to it, there was a photograph of my father helping me to walk when I was a toddler.

_Mallory Jade Holmes, age 2, learning to walk with the assistance of Sherlock Holmes. Recovered from an anonymous contact. _

No one knew that my first name was Mallory—no one at all. I frowned sharply, wondering who could have unearthed that secret. Dad had assured me that he would never tell anyone—he understood what it was like, to avoid a first name.

Sitting there, in a cabinet next to it, was my blanket from when I was very small. It was white with a pink trim, with polar bears sewn onto it—a present from Grandma Holmes. Filled with nostalgia, I removed it from the case slowly, struggling with the zip ties.

"Can't remember when I saw you last…" I whispered to the blanket, a few tears escaping. Suddenly, I was a little girl again, holding my blanket and watching both of my parents bicker over who would have to keep me. I already knew, back then, that I wasn't wanted.

I was a freak.

The material of the blanket comforted me a bit, and I walked across the room, seeing more newspaper clippings. Photographs of my father were pinned to them with tacks—some of them disturbingly recent.

"I guess you're a stalker, Hallow," I muttered. The identity of my kidnapper was pretty certain—it was unlikely I would be randomly abducted while chasing down a serial killer.

Uncle did always love to remind me about the balance of probability—it was a bit annoying that he tended to be right about its usefulness.

One of the clippings, I realized, came straight from Uncle John's blog. It had been ages, it seemed, since I had actually seen him. He tended to have a pattern of drifting in and out of Dad's life.

It would have been better, of course, if Aunt Mary weren't a psychopathic murderer. Dad had told me the truth behind it all, that Mary did intend to kill him and she missed by accident. He'd sworn me to secrecy, telling me that it would destroy John if he knew the entire truth about his wife.

I didn't doubt him.

Another clipping showed a police report, back from when everyone believed Dad was a fraud. The title was unsavory, and I didn't need to read the text to know what it said. People were far too susceptible to believing the media—I blamed them for what happened to Dad. And yet, without Moriarty's plan, I might have never been born.

It was a funny sort of feeling.

"Very obsessive," I frowned a bit, looking around the rest of the room. I only found more of the same—clippings, photographs, and memorabilia. It was the room of an obsessed fanatic.

It reminded me of Moriarty, the way he was first described to me—a fan of Sherlock Holmes. He was definitely the "catch me before I kill again" type of fan.

Whoever created this room—Hallow, of course—was that type as well. It made my stomach churn, and at the same time, I felt more alive than I ever had.

"I see you've found your way around, Mallory," a voice purred out quietly. "Or do you prefer to be called Jade, hmm?"

* * *

The blindfold was removed from my eyes, and I quickly gazed around at my new surroundings. The room was shrouded in darkness, the dangling chandelier above me unused. In front of me, a delicate table was set with the finest china. And across from me, a woman in a mask peered at me.

"You may call me Masquerade," she informed me. Her voice was light and cool, with a subtle British accent.

"I know who you are," I said cockily, glancing down quickly at the china in front of me. A cup of tea had already been poured, and plenty of sugar cubes were placed next to it—she must have already known how I took my tea.

She was beautiful, of course, from what I could make out. Her hair had been put up, and the mask was a unique black design. She could have been dressed to go to a ball, with her scarlet dress billowing. Her skin glowed, almost ghostlike.

_Is she really Annette Hallows? _

"Of course you do, Mallory," Masquerade chuckled. "We all imagine we know who someone really is."

There was a soft _chink _as she picked up her cup of tea and sipped at it delicately. She could have come straight out of an anime, with her poise and grace. It was like this was a game to her.

It was thrilling. I blushed slightly, staring down at my own cup for a moment. Though of course, I didn't dare drink it—I wasn't completely clueless.

"It's Jade," I corrected her, frowning a bit. "And I know who you are. In fact, Dad knows and he's going to turn you in."

Masquerade laughed a bit. "Please, Mallory. We both know that Sherlock is clueless about this—you haven't told him a thing."

"No one calls me Mallory," I sniffled. "It's old, outdated, and deplorable."

"More outdated than the word deplorable?" Masquerade teased, sipping at her drink again. "However, I believe we should discuss why you came seeking me out."

I paused. The reasons for seeking her out were complicated, vague, and simple, all at once. Revealing them wouldn't do me any good—and of course, there was always a chance that Masquerade wouldn't be as skilled with deduction as she seemed to be. Lying would be the safest choice. The truth was almost always too dangerous.

"I didn't," I said simply.

"Why were you riding a bicycle in the pouring rain? I wouldn't want you to catch a cold," she said, a hint of concern in her voice.

"Wanted a bit of fresh air," I repeated dully, schooling my face to be as minimal and simple as possible.

Masquerade chuckled. "I suppose that's understandable. I understand that you have certain issues, Mallory."

_Shit. _I should have realized she would have been aware of this. After all, Mum had blabbed to her all about me. But discomfort filled me, and I tried my best to avoid eye contact with Masquerade. It was all too fresh, all too uncertain, and all too frightening.

How was I supposed to have this conversation with a murderer if I couldn't even have it with my father?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, picking up the teacup slowly. It shook slightly in my hand, warm tea sloshing around inside of me. I didn't dare drink it. I merely pretended to.

"Anxiety, depression…" Masquerade paused for a moment. "You hallucinate at times as well—I don't believe there's been a diagnosis for that yet, has there?"

"No," I answered simply, setting the teacup back down.

She chuckled again. "Did you pick up on the clues, then, with the names? I thought it was rather brilliant, myself."

I frowned a bit. I could remember all of the locations, in order—the electronics store, the diner, the aquarium, and the jail.

"No," I sighed a bit.

Masquerade paused again, swishing her tea around in its cup. "Watch the way that they begin—you'll need to pay attention to that soon. You aren't ready yet for my collection, I'm afraid."

"Your collection?" I frowned, my heart skipping a beat. The sound of it was terrifying, yet fascinating all the same.

What made her act and think like this? I couldn't fathom it, causing my curiosity to grow more and more.

"You need some mending," Masquerade sighed. "But then, I'll collect you—the daughter of Sherlock Holmes. No one else in the world will have you in their collection. They'll be jealous, of course…"

Her voice trailed off, as she stared at me, most of her face hidden behind the mask. She looked like a vulture, and I could see the hint of an awkward smile. It vanished slowly, melting away into nothingness.

"Your father will be here soon," Masquerade mused. "I best get the cameras ready—maybe I'll be lucky enough for get a DNA sample!"

She practically fluttered as she stood up from her seat, walking away into the darkness. A firm hand gripped my back, and with no words, I was instructed to stand. I did so, peering at the way where Masquerade had gone.

The enigma of Annette Hallows only grew more perplexing by the minute.

* * *

A crack of light flooded in through the window, illuminating the darkness. Masquerade had sent me back into the room from before, letting me be surrounded with relics of my father.

"Jade!" a voice called out, in a clear yet hushed whisper.

I turned my head, noting with surprise that the window was indeed open. Dad's curly head stuck through it, and his face was painted with an odd mixture of worry and relief.

"Dad!" I shouted back, a strange feeling of disappointment filling me. _I wanted to be rescued, didn't I?_

Standing up from my resting place on the ground, I walked over quietly to the window. I held my hands up, and in a matter of moments, Dad had removed the zip ties from them. He pocketed them, before offering a hand to me.

I paused for a moment, before taking his hand. He gingerly helped me out the window, and then down a fire escape. Only when we had reached the bottom and he had signaled for a cab did he resume speaking.

"I knew where you were the entire time," he revealed. "It was my thinking that you would sneak out and that I shouldn't prohibit you."

I felt my cheeks go red. "You…You noticed that I left the flat?"

He nodded. "You made quite the racket, trying to hail a cab. You do it like this."

And soon enough, a cab did make its way over to the side of the road. Dad opened the door, ushering me inside, before going inside as well. He smirked a bit.

"I assume you have now seen our killer—can you identify the individual?" he pressed.

I swallowed a bit. "It's a woman. She's very rich and beautiful."

Dad sighed a bit, as if wondering how his child could be so idiotic at times. "I need more descriptors—tell me everything you saw."

"Well…Mum dropped by the hospital the other day," I said, hesitating slightly. "She said she knew the killer once—she was a client. But I don't have any proof it was her. She had a mask on—all I could tell was that she was pale and British, as well as playful."

Lines formed on Dad's face, as he began to concentrate on the information. I could imagine him delving into his mind palace, analyzing each word and each phrase. "Who specifically did Irene say the killer was?"

I bit my lip, and then I sighed a bit. "Annette Hallows—I wanted to impress you with finding the killer, so that maybe…"

"Maybe what?" Dad questioned, his voice sounding distracted as he swallowed more and more information.

"Maybe you would be proud of me for once," I said, my voice catching a bit. "And…And maybe you would be able to love me."


	9. Chapter 9

"Annette Hallows," Dad stated firmly, as he stared down at the corpse. Flashes of red and blue would illuminate the dark skin, and the soft sound of the siren bounced off of the walls.

Lestrade glanced over from Donovan, looking at Dad. "I'm sorry?"

"Annette Hallows," Dad repeated. "I can't prove it, but she is the one responsible for all of these murders."

Lestrade's face fell slightly. "What do you mean, you can't prove it? You're…you're bloody Sherlock Holmes! You had to come to that conclusion somehow!"

Dad glanced over at me, and I felt my pulse accelerate slightly. Lestrade couldn't know about Mum—it would ruin her. And despite everything she had done, I couldn't help but want to protect her. It was human nature, a basic instinct that even Dad could comprehend.

"I won't bother explaining it to you," Dad huffed. "The evidence will not hold up in court—but the killer is indeed Annette Hallows."

Lestrade sighed a bit, stooping a bit as he gazed down at the body. The woman didn't match the profiles of the previous victims—her skin was dark and luxurious. She wore a smart power suit and her hair was in a bit of a tangled mess—signs of a struggle.

And just like before, she had been stabbed in the heart. Her mobile device stuck out of her pocket awkwardly, a sleek and brand new iPhone model. Dad crouched down a bit, pulling the knife out of the body gingerly.

"A small knife," he muttered. "Easily concealed. The handle, of course, is identical to the rest."

He handed the knife over to Lestrade, who nervously packaged it up into an evidence bag. Dad turned his gaze away from us, pulling out his own mobile and furiously typing away.

"Mind if I have a look?" I said timidly, looking at Lestrade for permission. Donovan rolled her eyes a bit behind him, but he nodded at me.

"Thanks," I said awkwardly, crouching down next to the corpse. Carefully, I plucked the mobile out of her pocket, and pressed the home button. The device illuminated quickly, showing a text from _07774 123 456_.

It was a London area code, but the message was what terrified me. I gulped a bit, staring at it, as if to confirm that it was indeed real.

_Text me the answer once you realize how they all began –M._

"Who is M?" Donovan asked abruptly, causing me to jump a little bit. She smiled at me friendlily, yet then her gaze hardened. "This could be something. Oi, boss, come look at this!"

Lestrade walked over, looking over my shoulder as well. The screen illuminated his face as well, highlighting the lines created from countless nights of stress. He breathed out heavily, before glancing over at Dad expectantly.

Dad still was typing away furiously on his phone, cursing under his breath every now and then—his own search must not have been all too successful.

"Jade, care to explain for us, then?" Lestrade offered, a strained smile appearing on his face.

Even now, they all continued to doubt me.

"M could be Moriarty," I joked a bit, trying to lighten the mood. "But…I think M is for Masquerade—Dad and I had a bit of a run in with her the other day."

"Why didn't you tell us this?" Lestrade glared a bit. He stood up and started to pace back and forth. "We let you two in on cases as a privilege—not a right. You need to report into us more."

My face turned red, yet Dad was still busy—he wouldn't be much help. "It didn't seem to be related to the case—but this, this confirms it. Consider yourself informed…Inspector."

His face calmed down a bit, and even Donovan seemed to be a little sated. He smiled wearily at me. "Sorry for snapping, it's just….this case…It's not helping our solve rate at all."

I blinked a bit. _Was that all he was stressing over? A solve rate? _Sure, solve rates were commonly used to measure up the strength of a police department—but I thought the answer to the mystery was what was driving him nuts.

"And of course, I don't fancy someone dropping bodies," Lestrade frowned.

"Bad for business," I teased, still troubled over his remark.

He rolled his eyes slightly, before returning his gaze to the body.

Dad stalked back over, angrily shoving his mobile back into his pocket. "This murder is different—it's a new message."

Donovan frowned. "How on earth can you tell? It looks the same to me!"

"No playing cards?" I offered, looking at Dad expectantly. He returned a warm smile, before waving his hands around in the air lazily—something wasn't going well.

"Exactly—a text on the mobile?" he raised an eyebrow, glancing at it. He instantly reached the same conclusion as I. "This confirms it—Masquerade is Annette Hallows, or at least, related. I favor the former option."

I nodded, peering at the text again. "It's a game—like Moriarty's game. We have to text the answer to the puzzle."

Lestrade hit his head with his palm, groaning wearily. "Come on! Why can't I get normal criminals for once in a while?! Why do we always get the psychopaths?"

Donovan rubbed his back gingerly, but even she looked more distressed than usual. "A fan of Moriarty…That's not good, boss."

Rapidly aging by the second, Lestrade nodded. He stood up straight again, resuming his full height. His hair seemed to become greyer by the second, and the lines in his face only became deeper.

"Bollocks," he muttered. "Let's not have a repeat of last time if we can help it."

"No faking our deaths?" Dad smirked, his eyes twinkling a bit. "Rest assured, Graham, this case will be solved easily. We'll have the solution sent to this number within a day."

"It's _Greg_," Lestrade glared. "And you bloody better…I don't get paid enough for this shit!"

"Of course, Geoffrey," Dad stated, winking a bit. "And for once, John's blog is quite right—the game is on!"

* * *

"And there, that'll do it!" I grinned, pinning the last photograph onto the bulletin board.

I stood back, admiring my handiwork. Even Dad looked a little bit impressed—an accomplishment. Each victim had been placed on there, with a photograph of the location they were murdered at. Every little detail about the case had been included, creating a gorgeous collage of death.

It was just a normal family activity.

"Well done," Dad murmured. His eyes swept over the bulletin board, pausing on certain photographs.

His eyes lingered on the photograph of the text message, instructing us to notice how some particular thing began. He frowned a bit, before the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile. His forehead remained creased—an unhappy conclusion.

"I've solved it," he announced. "This is your next examination, Jade. Solve the murderer's puzzle and you pass."

My eyes popped out of my head. "You want _me _to solve _this_?"

I stared at him, completely incredulous. Dad only chuckled at me, picking up his violin and beginning to play. It took me a moment to realize it was the _Jeopardy _theme—he was mocking me.

I huffed. "Fine! I'll solve the stupid puzzle…"

The music continued, further taunting me. I squinted my eyes at the bulletin board, as if that somehow would make the answer pop out at me. Nothing happened. I growled a bit, wondering if I could scare myself into figuring it out.

And that, too, failed predictably.

"You might want to try your mind palace," Dad hinted, with a soft chuckle.

I shook my head. "I'll solve it without cheating, thanks."

Taking a deep breath, the text message Dad was examining caught my eye. It couldn't have been the names of the victims—or could it have been? I frowned again—the location had something to do with it all for sure.

The electronics store.

The diner.

The aquarium.

The jail.

_What if it was in reverse?_ I rearranged the titles in my mind, and I eliminated the article—it made more sense that way.

Jail.

Aquarium.

Diner.

Electronics store.

"JADE," I blurted, my insides freezing. "That's the answer to the puzzle—it's _JADE."_

The music stopped abruptly, and Dad turned, giving me a smile filled with pride and fear. He ruffled my hair slightly, and then he slowly put an arm around me, pulling me close.

"Seems you have a fan," Dad chuckled a bit, yet the laughter didn't reach his eyes.

"This is weird," I said simply.

"I know—you never expect to get a fan."

"No, I meant you hugging me," I giggled.

"Oh," Dad said, his eyebrows furrowed. He removed his arm and stepped back, giving me a space bubble. He frowned a bit, struggling to form some sort of apology.

"It's fine," I laughed a bit, though there was a strange emptiness inside of me. I couldn't understand why I tried so hard for Dad's affection, but when it came, I couldn't accept it. It felt taboo.

Something that I could never possibly be worthy of.

"I'll send the text to Masquerade with the answer," Dad muttered. "I advise you stay safe, Jade. Lestrade is right—this individual is highly dangerous."

"I know," I smiled thinly. "I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were," Dad frowned. "I find you to be quite intelligent, Jade."

I nodded, my cheeks heating up once again. I had a terrible problem with that—I blushed far too easily. "Thanks…Dad."

* * *

I sat on my bed, staring up at the glow in the dark stars. The stars used to be something of significance to me—I would gush about how much I loved Astronomy for hours. But now, it was all tinged with pain. I was staring at someone else's life.

"Fuck this," I sighed, getting up from my perch. I walked over to the post of the Milky Way Galaxy, covered with all sorts of neat little facts. Pressing my hand against it, I breathed in and felt the glossy material.

And then I tore it down.

I crumpled the poster in my hand, feeling empty—and relieved. I let the crumpled ball fall onto the ground, the poster hitting the floor softly. There was now an empty spot on the wall, free of the dreams of yesterday.

I spotted another poster—a chart showing each of the planets—and I felt the material of it as well. A tear slid down my cheek as I ripped it off of the wall, the edges of it tearing. I let it drop, watching it fall onto the floor.

"Goodbye," I whispered softly. I found more posters and tore them down in a frenzy, until everything relating to Astronomy was gone. The walls of my room seemed bare and empty, and I laughed a little bit.

Gazing upwards, I saw the stars on the ceiling, continuing to mock me. I hopped up on top of a bookshelf, climbing until I could reach the stars. And then, without any sort of ceremony, I tore them down. They fell to the ground, landing limply, waiting to be forgotten.

I blinked back a few tears, filling the silence with melancholic laughter. The person I used to be was dead on the floor, covered in posters of an old obsession. I greeted the bare walls, feeling them with my hands.

I could start over.

I could reinvent myself.

"I don't have to be sad anymore," I giggled, laughing softly through my tears. My vision blurred a bit, and I grinned wider, lost in some sort of gloomy ecstasy.

Hopping down from the bookshelf, I turned my gaze to my laptop. Usually, it served the purpose of reading fanfiction and watching Netflix—two of my hobbies. It helped me binge watch every show I could imagine, including the hilarious show, based off of Dad's life: _Elementary._

My biggest disappointment was that no one seemed to know I existed—in all of the Sherlock fan blogs, they assumed he lived completely alone. They didn't know that he had a daughter. It was a deep scar that shouldn't have mattered, but the lack of acknowledgement stung.

It was as if it came from Dad instead of clueless strangers.

I opened the laptop and clicked for a new browser, Google staring back at me expectantly. I took a deep breath—now was my chance to follow a new dream, to invent a new passion.

"Let's look at neuroscience…"

* * *

"Do you want me to come inside?" Dad offered.

"No," I shook my head. "I…I think I can go in all by myself. I can manage."

I smiled at him weakly, and I waved goodbye. Agatha stood at the door waiting for me, smiling like a chipmunk. She ushered me inside and shut the door behind me, preventing the detective from learning much of our conversation.

"It's been a while, Jade," Agatha stated playfully. "Please, have a seat."

I nodded and sat down on the sofa, every inch of my body trembling from fear. I never could relax in these sessions. I wanted to run away as fast as I could, to protect myself from someone discovering the darkness inside of me.

"So, what would you like to talk about?" Agatha asked, smiling at me.

I hesitated, various topics coming to mind. I could discuss the feelings of inadequacy, I could whine and moan about Patrick, and I could share the odd feelings I have towards Masquerade.

"I want to talk about my dad," I said, surprising myself.

"What about him?" Agatha replied softly, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I…I can't talk to him about things," I admitted. "It's…It's like it's wrong for me to talk to him."

Agatha nodded a bit, excellently following each rule of active listening. She stared at me, waiting for me to continue, with no sign of making a single comment or giving a piece of advice.

"And I should be able to talk to him about things," I rambled. "But I can't. I just can't and…I wish that I would be able to talk to him about things."

"Why can't you talk to him about things?" Agatha pressed quietly, scribbling down a few notes onto her pad. Her eyes looked me over, noticing every little tremble, and every little bit of hesitation.

Why couldn't I talk to Dad about things? I frowned, biting my lip a bit, as I pondered the question. Every time I tried to, I felt…weak. I felt as if I was bothering him, as if he could never have any time to deal with someone like me.

But what sort of person was I? Only a psychopath wouldn't have time for their own daughter, right? There was no reason for Dad to not care about me—even if Uncle preached not caring, even he cared.

So what was holding me back?

"I don't think I'm good enough," I said lamely, staring down at the floor. "I'm…I'm not as smart as Dad is. He shouldn't waste time on me."

"He isn't wasting time on you," Agatha corrected. "He's spending time with you because he loves you, Jade."

I swallowed, a few tears coming. I blinked again, trying to hide any sign of emotions.

"You need to let yourself feel, Jade," Agatha suggested. "It isn't bad to have feelings—it's human."

"Uncle said caring isn't an advantage," I muttered. "I have to be…I have to be above it all."

Agatha laughed a bit. "Your uncle has an attachment disorder—he cares for you and your father more than you two could ever know. Now, your father loves you, Jade."

I peered up at her, hardly able to see through the tears. "Does he really?"

"Why don't you go ask him yourself, Jade?" Agatha smiled, motioning for me to look at the door.

Dad stood outside it, visible from his frame. I got up and opened the door, seeing his face filled with surprise and concern.

"Do you…Do you love me Dad?" I stammered, feeling weak.

He chuckled a bit, yet then the laughter faded. "Of course I love you, Jade. Why would you think otherwise?"


	10. Chapter 10

Gasping and coughing, I stopped running. I looked behind me, only seeing a few harmless joggers—no one to worry about. Leaning over, I braced myself on my legs, feeling a burning sensation in my calves. Everything ached, but I knew that I just had to keep on going—I couldn't stop here, or it would all be for nothing.

I hated exercise.

Dad had insisted that I get back into shape—partially for the mental benefits, but also in the event that a case required some physical exercise. Panting, I couldn't see much of the benefit—I wanted to be back in my room, binge watching Netflix or pondering where to go next in the case.

I most certainly did _not _want to be out running around, looking like an idea, as I felt like I would cough up a lung. Reaching into my tiny drawstring bag, I pulled out a water bottle and I guzzled it down. Luckily, I wasn't that far from home—it was only another block or so before I would be back at the flat.

My pulse seemed to be beating far too rapidly, and I desperately tried to take in more air, but it seemed to be no use. I spent the remainder of the walk gasping and red faced, probably attracting the attention and judgment of far too many passersby. Uncle was probably tuned in with the CTV, chuckling in amusement.

Of course, it wasn't like _he_ could run anything longer than a mile to begin with. I chuckled, forcing myself to push through, and I almost collapsed against the door to the flat. It pushed open against my touch, slamming into the wall—Mrs. Hudson was always getting on me about that, claiming that I was leaving a dent.

The color drained out of my face, but it wasn't for that reason. Even if I wasn't as brilliant at Dad or Uncle, I knew something was wrong—no one ever leaved that door unlocked. Mrs. Hudson never allowed it, even when she was using her _herbal soothers. _

"Dad!" I shouted, wearily running up the stairs. Adrenaline pounded through me, allowing me not to notice the way my legs shaped and wobbled. The door to our flat was open, yet someone had carved crudely onto it. I traced it gently with my fingers, feeling each bit of splintered wood.

It was an M.

"Dad!" I screamed again, running into our living room. I didn't take into account the relative unlikelihood that he would still be there—I didn't pay attention to it at all. A scared child had taken over my actions, and I was a whimpering outsider to the entire affair.

I stood in the center of the room, looking around in vain. Various bits and bobs were knocked over, falling onto the floor. Scuffmarks marked up the rug in various ages—a struggle. My heart sank as I saw traces of blood on the wall.

I didn't need a forensic analyst to know whom the blood belonged to.

Gulping, I ran into the kitchen, still hoping that Dad would somehow be here. The kitchen table was overturned, with the beakers that once contained acids and bases shattered on the floor. I bit my lip, and despite my panic, I grabbed the supply of baking soda from the cabinet. I shook it all over the floor, before grabbing some vinegar and dousing everything in the same manner.

"I guess that should be neutralized…" I said numbly, half expecting Dad to be peering over my shoulder to admire my work.

A soft whimper escaped my mouth—Dad wasn't here.

The reality slowly began to settle in. Dad wasn't here. There were signs of a struggle, the flat had been broken into, and our floor had been covered in chemicals and left unattended. The only solution is that someone had kidnapped Dad.

I pulled out my mobile, quickly unlocking it—the password was a simple one to guess. I modeled it after my mother's, thinking it to be a way of connecting to her. And I went into my contacts, finding the number that I had saved as _Director Fury._

It was Mycroft's private phone—the one I was only supposed to use in the most extreme emergencies. This would qualify as one, right?

The M carved into our door flashed into my mind again, along with the text message found on the dead girl's phone. Biting my lip, I hit the small button next to Mycroft's contact. The line began to ring and almost mechanically, I raised it to my ear.

"_Jade?" _Uncle responded, answering almost instantly. In the background, I could hear the shuffling of papers and hushed whispers. He wasn't at the Diogenes club—no one ever spoke a word there, out of some twisted tradition.

I stepped slowly towards the door, softly pushing it closed. My eyes widened slightly at my new discovery, and I found my hand trembling.

"_Jade?" _Uncle repeated, obviously becoming more and more impatient. The background noise had grown to a quiet din. _"Jade, are you there?"_

Opening my mouth, I discovered that I couldn't make a sound, even if I wanted to. My eyes swept over the back of the door, my blood chilled and burning simultaneously.

"_I'll be there shortly," _Mycroft said, his voice firm and unwavering. _"Don't go anywhere." _

He waited for a moment, to see if I would respond, before ending the connection. I let my breath go out, staring at the back of the door in horror.

Had I just killed my father?

* * *

Curled up on the sofa, I stared endlessly at the bulletin board that I had constructed for Dad. Reaching his mobile proved useless—the kidnapper was far too clever than to be fooled so easily. I tried to mentally store the image of everything of the scene, in order to hide it all from Uncle.

Yet instead, all I could do was stare at the wall, wondering if Dad was dead.

There was a soft knock at the door—I didn't move. Mycroft would let himself in like he always did. He had minted a key for himself at some point. Neither Dad nor I had provided it for him, though neither of us was particularly surprised to learn of its existence.

Surely enough, I soon could hear Uncle padding up the stairs softly. His steps were always distinctive, matching his gait. They carried power and confidence, yet also a weakness to them—a weakness no one could place. According to my father, only Magnussen had ever learned Mycroft's pressure point.

"Jade," Mycroft said, his voice tinged slightly with relief. I didn't avert my gaze to take him in—I knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking in the mess of the flat, the destruction and the chaos. Soon enough, his mind would reach the correct conclusion.

And then, Dad would be dead.

"Hello, fatty," I said, my voice filled with despair. I continued gazing forward at the wall, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked plainly, stepping into my line of sight.

He had donned a powdered white wig. At any other time, I would have taken this opportunity to laugh at him relentlessly, and point out how silly it looked on his head. Instead, I simply looked at him despondently. It was as if all of the happiness and goodness of the world had vanished.

I couldn't imagine a world without my father—he was my best friend.

He understood me.

"He's resting," I lied lazily. Although, it wasn't too much of a stretch. The note on the door had been very clear. If the government was involved with Dad's kidnapping, then he would be killed.

I had to solve it all myself.

Mycroft frowned a bit, staring at me with partially narrowed eyes. "And where would he be resting, my dear niece?"

A cemetery? A flat somewhere? The bottom of the Thames?

"In his bedroom," I replied softly. I shifted my gaze slightly, a small smile creeping up my face. I didn't feel like smiling—yet there it was, as clear as day.

"Is this the truth?" Mycroft said, gazing towards where Dad's bedroom was. He delicately stepped over the mess of papers and made his way towards the door, hesitating when he reached the handle.

"Of course," I replied. "I wouldn't lie about something like this without good reason."

Mycroft hesitated slightly, and then he nodded. He straightened up, gazing over at me. "I trust you have everything in good hands, Jade."

I nodded.

He paused, before walking towards the door. Without a word, he exited the flat, closing the door softly behind him. It clicked into place, and I could hear him slowly move the knocker into place.

Dad might still be alive.

I grinned from ear to ear, finding a source of motivation for once. There was another option for locating Dad—the homeless network. They had heard of me a few times, and some of them considered me to be family.

It was a little weird, but I wasn't going to let a resource go to waste. Masquerade—or rather, Annette—had said nothing about getting help from a bunch of London's homeless.

There was hope, after all.

As long as I could keep Mycroft out of it, then Dad would still have a chance to live. Even if it meant that I would die in its place, it was worth it. I didn't have much to live for. And as tragic as it would be for a child to die before their parent, it would be much more tragic for there to be a world without Sherlock Holmes in it.

* * *

It wasn't too hard to find a homeless person in London. They littered the streets, begging on each and every corner. It reminded me of an Orwell novel, _A Clergyman's Daughter_, where the poor attempted to be arrested, simply for a warm place to sleep. And as awful as their suffering was, I generally simply avoided looking at them, walking away with indifference.

If you ignored them, they didn't seem to be human.

Yet this time, I actively sought them out. I marched out of the flat, dressed in my coat with the scarf Dad had given me for Christmas—a lovely shade of emerald green. Turning my gaze, I couldn't find any good candidates.

"Under the bridge, then," I muttered, resolved to mobilize the network. I had taken some cash from Dad's supply and stuffed it in my pockets, ready to give it out for motivation.

Everyone worked harder when there was money involved—one of the few lessons of Uncle's that I had paid attention to.

Hurrying down the street, the soreness of my earlier workout had almost all vanished. I almost sped past a homeless man in all of my hurry. Instead, I skidded to a halt, staring at him eagerly.

He raised an eyebrow at me, as if wondering what on Earth I could want. He was about my father's age, white with greying hair. Dark circles outlined his eyes, and his skin sagged from years of substance abuse. The clothing he wore was ill-fitting and mismatched, even torn in some places.

Next to him, there was a little sign made of cardboard that read: _Anything helps. God bless. _

Well, he did say anything, didn't he?

"I have a job for you," I said, a smirk sliding onto my face naturally. People liked to tell me that I looked identical to Dad like this, with my face framed with messy black hair. I didn't always see it—yet now, I could feel it.

The homeless man frowned, blinking at me. One of his eyes was partially fogged over—early blindness. "What sort of job, miss?"

"I need you to find Sherlock Holmes—the consulting detective who gives out handouts sometimes," I instructed. "I'm sure you've heard of him."

"Sherlock who?" the man said, rolling his eyes a bit at me.

"Sherlock _Holmes_," I stressed. "I'm sure you've heard of him—he does so much with the network."

"The network?" the man laughed. "Girl, you be crazy. There ain't no such thing as a Sherlock home."

"Sherlock Holmes!" I protested, sighing a bit. "I'll just find someone else who doesn't want to play games with me—someone who will help."

The man didn't seem to be very bothered by my half threat, waving me away with his hand. I huffed and left, walking in the direction of the bridge—there would be more people there, surely one of them would want to help.

Vaguely, I felt the previous man's eyes on my back, no doubt muttering something about how I was insane. But I wasn't insane. My father was real. The homeless network was real.

I could tell what was real.

"Hey!" I called out, running the final stretch towards the bridge. A group of five stood there, wearing more tattered garments and warming their hands around a father. Unlike the previous man, they didn't have the good fortune to own gloves—instead, they had to use socks.

A dirty blonde stared up at me, dirt covering her nose. "Whatcha want, dearie?"

Her eyes gazed over my figure, no doubt noticing the state of my clothing. I smiled awkwardly at her, hoping that I didn't seem to be pretentious—I probably did, anyways.

"I have a case," I said proudly, imagining the way Dad would have announced this to them. Did they grin and immediately agree to it? Did they react with relative indifference, used to this line of work?

They didn't react with confused and vacant faces, did they?

"A case?" a brunette repeated, a deep frown causing her to look older than she was. "I don't know what you're on about, love."

A bit of worry crept up—I recognized the man standing silently. His scar defined him, as it ran the length of his face. He had gotten it working a case with Dad—a nasty cut from a sword.

He had to remember Dad—no one forgot the man they were cut with a sword for! It was absurd!

"Oi, you!" I called out, staring at the man in the back. "You know who Sherlock Holmes is, don't you? He's my father. You've worked for him before."

He frowned a bit, looking at me curiously. "Sherlock who?"

My heart stopped beating. For a moment, everything shifted out of focus, blurring, before it all returned.

"You know bloody well who!" I shouted, my hands trembling. "Sherlock Holmes, the detective!"

The man stared at me blankly. His companions looked at him uneasily, casting sideways glances at me. "I've never heard that name before—never met him. Was he important?"

"Yes!" I cried out. "He…He was also called Shezza! Do you know Shezza, maybe? Really tall, acts like a dick, big coat with collars?"

"Sorry, kid," the man said, his voice empty of the voiced sympathy. "I don't know a Sherlock or a Sezza."

"Shezza," I corrected, my voice starting to hitch.

I threw a glance at them again, my breath becoming more and more rapid. The dirty blonde started towards me, looking at me softly. "You okay, love? You look a bit pale…There's no Sherlock Holmes, dear."

"No!" I shouted, pulling out my mobile with shaking hands. It took me about five times to bring up the search bar, and seven times to type in Dad's name. I clicked, going for results, only to find…

Nothing.

There were articles about the origin of the name Holmes, how common the name Sherlock was, yet nothing on the consulting detective. I bit my lip and entered in his full name—William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

And still, there was nothing.

Dad didn't exist.

"Do you want us to call someone, dear?" the brunette asked, her voice soft and raspy. She was a heavy smoker, I realized, the deductions coming in too fast to be comprehended.

I slowly put away my mobile, my panic mode continuing to rise. Dad existed. He couldn't _not _exist. No serial killer could accomplish that.

"Is this a joke?" I shouted out, yet instead of waiting for them to answer, I ran. The next gathering place for the homeless wouldn't be too far from here. I sprinted, making it all the way to the graffiti paradise.

Raz, an old friend of Dad's, was painting some sort of masterpiece. I stopped running right next to him, crying and out of breath.

"I need your help!" I exclaimed. "It's Dad—no one knows he exists!"

His eyebrows furrowed at me, and he took a step back hesitantly. "Look, lady, I don't know who you are…"

"I'm Sherlock's daughter!" I pleaded, more tears pouring from my face. My entire body was shaking, and I couldn't see the world. Sometimes, it looked like the interior of the flat—at other times, I could see the various symbols painted onto the walls.

"Sherlock who?" Raz frowned. "Are you high?"

Was I high?

"Sherlock Holmes!" I said, practically screaming at him. "The world's only consulting detective! You helped him find the jade hairpin, the case that he named me after!"

Raz frowned, looking more and more confused. "I've never heard of that man before…"

I sighed in frustration, pulling out my mobile device. Without even thinking, I punched in Molly's number, having memorized it a little while again. It took me a few tries before she picked up, her tone hesitant and confused.

"_Hello, who is this?" _

"Jade!" I sobbed. "Tell me, you know Sherlock—you fell in love with him, for god's sake! You and him had the thing with the lipstick…and…and with the coffee…He was a famous consulting detective! You were friends!"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if Molly wasn't all too sure on how exactly to handle this.

"_There is no Sherlock Holmes," _she said softly. _"There never has been…"_

"But you love him!" I sobbed, throwing the phone onto the ground. It shattered instantly, and I couldn't bring myself to care about it. The tears became thicker and thicker, and I held my head in my hands.

Vaguely, I remembered that Raz had been in front of me—he was gone, now. He probably was going to get some sort of help.

"I'm not mad," I muttered, trying to dry away my tears. "Dad exists. Dad is real."

It became almost a mantra, something that I repeated over and over again as the tears thickened. I shifted slightly, feeling an odd force against my back—the force of a wall.

And yet, I was standing, a good few feet away from any sort of structure.

"Sherlock Holmes exists," I repeated, closing my eyes tight. I felt the pressure of the wall again, and I reached my hand out, feeling behind me gently. My fingertips brushed against something, and I opened my eyes.

I had never left 221B Baker Street.


	11. Chapter 11

Pouring the pills out of the bottle, I glanced down at them wearily. I felt completely drained from the illusion, from the terrible daydream. It didn't matter to me what these pills would do—as long as they would do something. I tipped my head back and tossed the pills into my mouth, forcing myself to smile despite the offending texture.

"All better now," I muttered, draining the glass of water that I had abandoned earlier.

I took a deep breath, imagining the chemicals in my brain beginning to regulate themselves. As far as I was aware, Mycroft had indeed come to the flat—I had simply never left. Not being able to tell the difference between reality and illusion almost crippled me with fear, but I had to go on.

I had to find Dad.

I crept down the stairs, looking at my coat and scarf. They were both undisturbed and untouched—further evidence of my insanity. _Should I really be doing this?_ Was this the emergency that I should have called Agatha over?

_Don't be absurd. You're fine. You're a Holmes. _

I scoffed a bit and pulled on my coat, tightening my scarf around my neck. A few crumpled up bills were in my pocket, just enough to bribe the network into helping me. And beyond that, it was in their best interests for Dad to return safely—if he were gone, he wouldn't pay them anymore for odd jobs.

They needed him, just like I did.

I opened the door, letting it swing forward on its hinge.

"Going out, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called, properly enjoying some sherry in her own flat.

"Going out for drinks!" I shouted out. I counted to ten, trying not to snicker. I was almost an adult—yet Mrs. Hudson never liked the idea that Dad didn't mind if I drank.

She was protective at times.

"Have fun, dear!" Mrs. Hudson called out, hiccupping slightly. She wasn't in her right mind at all—at least now, she was a little more fun. It was almost a shame that I couldn't stay behind to mess with her.

Perhaps next time.

Dashing out onto the street, I didn't bother with speaking to anyone on the corners. Instead, I ran straight towards the bridge, dodging cars and people alike. I smirked at a few gawking passersby, mentally daring them to do something about it.

But it wasn't like I wasn't aware of how dangerous it was. Little things like this got my survival instincts going, and because of that, I could feel alive. It was different than the soul sucking sadness, an eternity spent dying while living, breathing while drowning.

I panted a bit, coming to a stop by the bridge. Six people stood under it, laughing and smiling at each other. They wore tattered rags just like everyone else, using anything they had for gloves, in order to attempt to battle the London chill.

"Evening!" I called out, for a moment feeling terribly like Uncle John. Should I have called him about all of this? Wouldn't he want to know that Dad was being held hostage?

Biting my lip, I decided it was better that he didn't know. He had enough pain to deal with as it was.

"'Ello, lovely," a short woman greeted, coughing a bit. "What can we do for ya, hmm?"

"Any spare change?" a weary man, his blonde hair concealed by dirt, practically moaned. He sat on the ground, absentmindedly tracing patterns in the dirt. His latest creation was a five-point star, surrounded by a circle.

"Lovely drawing," I complimented him. "And I do have some cash—but it's for a job."

"What kind of job?" the first woman asked, her tone laced with curiosity.

"Paid," I laughed, a genuine grin creeping its way up on its face. The homeless stared back at me, their faces filled with irritation and vexation. The smile slipped from my face, replaced with an embarrassed frown.

"Right…Sorry about that. Are any of you familiar with Sherlock Holmes?" I broached, looking at each of them in turn. I imagined that the eye contact was a form of power, inspiring them all to want to comply with my orders.

But in reality, it most likely made me look desperate, over eager, and pompous.

"Yeah, what about him?" the tired blonde asked, brushing over his piece of artwork. "Worked for him once—did something about a cat or a puma on the loose…"

"A…a what?" I stammered, creasing my eyebrows.

"Yeah, there was a puma on the loose…" the man laughed, looking up at the bridge strangely. "Something with a circus and…it was a good laugh. Nice kitty…"

I shook my head slightly, making a mental note to ask Dad later about the puma.

"Look, Sherlock has gone missing," I said, trying to sound strong and firm. "I can pay you lot if you help to locate him—someone kidnapped him."

The short woman laughed a bit. "A bloody puma? Ha! Get this, I had to help him find his Hudders!"

"His _Hudders_?" the man giggled. "I had to find a lousy puma! Much more complicated!"

I frowned, steam spilling out of my ears. "SHUT UP! PAY ATTENTION TO ME WHEN I'M TALKING!"

The woman and the man stared at each other, as if contemplating whether or not to take me seriously. A vein was throbbing in my forehead, and I felt like I could explode.

"Thank you!" I seethed. "It doesn't matter if you found a puma or a Hudders—find Sherlock Holmes and you'll get more money than you did last time!"

"'Course we'll find him," the woman promised, running a hand through her short hair.

Her arm was covered in amazingly intricate tattoos—dragons and symbols that I couldn't even begin to understand. A triquetra was the centerpiece of it all, with black and red roses circling it.

"It's our job to find people," the man boasted, standing up from his position of hopelessness on the ground.

"Excellent," I smiled, pulling out a few pieces of paper from my pocket. "Call this number once you've located him—spread it along to anyone else who can help. I'll pay all of you lot."

The woman whistled a bit. "You must be rich, missy."

"Oh, my uncle is paying for this," I explained, handing them the pieces of paper. "He'll be more than glad to see Sherlock found safe."

The man grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. The rest of them were yellowing, and in the back, I spotted something black. I shuddered a bit—I _hated_ teeth.

"Who are you, miss?" he asked, putting my mobile number into his pocket, along with a bunch of spares. "Most people don't care about him, ain't that right Naggs?"

The woman, who I presumed to be Naggs, nodded a bit. She was putting on her shoes, getting ready for start of the job—and having money to eat that night.

"He ain't a likable person," the man giggled. "Everyone 'ates him, but he gives us funds…He cares for us. We like him. But why do you care, hmm?"

"I'm his daughter," I answered simply, though I knew the answer was more complicated than that.

Family was not blood. Blood could be family, but it didn't always have to be. And with the way my parents acted when I was younger, it was a wonder that I considered either of them to be family. My dad was an easier question to solve, if that portion of my childhood was forgotten.

He cared about me, and so, I cared about him.

* * *

Mycroft wouldn't mind too much about the money—it was hardly the first time that he had to pay fees for Dad and I. It was practically a family tradition at this point, as much as Dad hated to admit it.

Being a consulting detective didn't pay that much in the long run.

My stomach rumbled slightly, as I pushed open the door to Angelo's. The murder scene had been closed and business resumed a few days ago. He glanced up at me, his eyes drifting up slightly—he was looking for someone taller, lankier, and brighter.

His face fell slightly, but then he ushered me inside. "Good to see you, Jade!"

His grin widened, though it still looked forced. I mentally curled up into a tiny ball, allowing him to direct me to a small table. His eyes continued to sweep around the restaurant, waiting for Dad to appear.

It wasn't the best feeling in the world. It happened more often than not—people would find out Sherlock was my father, and they never paid attention to me anymore. They would simply want to find out about his cases, ask if he really was with John Watson once upon a time, and whether or not he was currently tracking a serial killer at the moment.

And once they found Dad, they would latch onto him even further, completely forgetting that I had ever existed. Only a murderer and a flock of photographers seemed to notice that I was alive—but even then, it was all because of Dad.

No one ever noticed me for _me_.

"Sherlock not around?" Angelo asked, as he handed over a menu.

I shrugged a bit, flipping through it slowly, without any point. I always ordered the same thing here—my favorite dish that Angelo could possibly make.

"Spaghetti with meat sauce," I requested.

"Sherlock?" Angelo pressed, nodding a bit. He dashed the order down on his tiny pad, yet his eyes never stopped searching the restaurant.

"_He's missing," _I contemplated saying, with a deadpan tone and a completely emotionless face. It would have been funny.

"He isn't going to be here," I said, pulling out a few quid. "This should be enough for the meal—you can keep the change."

Angelo nodded, hastily putting the cash into his miniature apron. He frowned a bit and paused, his eyes doing one final sweep of the restaurant. And then he turned away, walking back towards the kitchen without another word.

"Jerk," I muttered, picking up one of the crayons left for the children.

The cloth for the table was actually white butcher paper, perfect for doodling. I started tracing various symbols unconsciously, just enjoying the feeling of the crayon on the paper. It was a nice distraction from the stress of the world.

It didn't help at all to think about Dad.

It wasn't useful to wonder where he was.

Checking my phone constantly for updates was just as pointless. Yet it was torturous as well, a stabbing sensation in my heart occurring every time I saw a blank screen, void of any messages.

"Spaghetti with meat sauce," Angelo called out, setting the plate down in front of me. It was impossible for it to have been fresh—the service at Angelo's, when the food was decent, was normally zombielike.

"Thank you," I murmured, picking up a fork delicately. I dug into the dish, forcing myself to eat each bite. It was usually a struggle to eat. The smallest effort involved seemed like a wasted moment, something to not even bother with.

Depression was funny, like that.

My phone started to buzz, causing a small spasm to run throughout my body. I answered the call, flinging the fork onto the floor, the noodles twirled around it completely forgotten.

"Jade Holmes," I said, anxiously. "Have you found him?"

There was heavy static on the other end of the line, making the words hardly audible. _"Yes…We…found him…Hospital…Vale…"_

"Thank you," I said curtly, abandoning my food. I walked towards the door of the restaurant as quickly as I could, still clinging to my phone. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"_Reward…cash…Miss…"_

"Of course," I snapped. "I always keep my word."

It could have easily been a trick, a scam to rid me of all of my money. But the possibility didn't matter enough. The process of confirming with Mycroft that Dad was indeed at the hospital seemed like it would take too much time.

Anxiety and nervousness had combined already, creating a burning feeling of restlessness and fear. One question above all tormented me, causing me to shake slightly as I hailed a cab.

_Would Dad be alive when I found him?_

* * *

"Jade!"

I spun around, having just entered the lobby of the hospital. There, standing underneath the horrid lighting, was Uncle John. He looked a little thin, faint lines drawn into his face. He grinned at me, wearing one of his customary jumpers.

"Uncle John!" I called out, mustering up the courage to be happy.

When I was younger, I would always be happy when I was around Uncle John. He just seemed to radiate happiness, but now, I cringed a bit to look at him. Perhaps that was why I hadn't seen him for a while—I stopped talking to Uncle John after I had broken up with…Well, it had been a long time.

He walked towards me, pulling me into a warm embrace. "God, you've grown so much!"

"I haven't grown an inch, you dirty little liar," I sniffled. "You're the worst hobbit of them all."

John rolled his eyes, releasing me from his embrace. "Honestly, I have no idea where you get that entire hobbit thing from—but it doesn't matter. I need to talk to you about something."

I nodded a bit, shoving my hands into my pockets. Without thinking about it, I turned my phone back on, hoping for a text.

"A conversation without you being all on your phone," John huffed. "I know what teenagers these day do—let's not do that."

"Fine," I said sourly. "Is this something that we can't talk about in front of Dad? I'd really like to see him. It's why I rushed to a hospital, as you may have noticed…Didn't wake up with an urge to come here."

John laughed a bit, taking my arm and guiding me towards a quiet little corner. The nearest person was a mother and a little boy, reading a children's book. Another glance confirmed that it was one of my favorites—_Through the Looking Glass._

"It's very important, Jade, that we keep this between the two of us," John murmured, glancing around nervously.

What, was he going to give me nuclear launch codes?

"Alright…" I said hesitantly, watching as John carefully reached into his gigantic coat pockets. He pulled out a small bag, with an item tightly packed inside of it.

"It's something I'm loaning to you," John explained, handing me the bag gently.

I held it in my hands, slowly feeling out the shape of its contents. It took me a moment to place it, and once I did, my eyes widened.

"You can't be serious, bringing this in here!" I whispered angrily, reeling in shock.

"Keep it down!" John cautioned, glancing around again. "I don't want people to know about it!"

"Of course you don't," I frowned. "You just gave a kid a bloody gun!"

Perhaps Dad had been getting to him.

He shook his head gently at me, still gazing around in paranoia. The woman and her child continued to read in peace, without any idea of the exchange that went on. The receptionist checked his phone, awaiting some sort of text—perhaps from a boyfriend? Life went on. The world kept turning.

"You're getting into dangerous matters, Jade," John cautioned. "You need to be prepared for anything."

"How…How do you know about this?" I asked softly, putting the strap of the bag around my neck, letting the bag itself rest against my side.

John laughed a bit. "You forget, Sherlock's my best friend. He tells me everything. Surprised you didn't know, to be honest."

I sniffled slightly. "Of course I knew. I was merely pretending I didn't."

John didn't look too convinced at my attempt to save face, but he let it be. He stood up, holding a hand out for me. I rose under my own power, feeling the gun slam lightly against my leg as I stood.

In an instant, I saw how ridiculous my life was.

"I know that you might…might feel like you're worth nothing," John said softly, walking towards Dad's room. "But you are worth something, Jade."

"Thanks?" I said, smiling awkwardly. "I mean, I know that I'm amazing and everything. I'm fantastic."

"You don't need to be sarcastic about that," John said, smiling. "You really are amazing. I know you don't know that."

He was right, of course. I didn't know that.

* * *

John opened the door for me, ushering me inside of the hospital room. Dad was reclined back, his body covered in various bandages, all of them attempting to heal wounds. His condition was better than mine had been.

The network had found him beaten up and unconscious, with blood smeared over his body in various designs. I didn't need to ask them what shape the designs had made—I knew already.

"John?" Dad exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. He winced a bit in pain, yet a smile spread across his face.

"Good god, Sherlock," John said, shaking his head. "I really need to stop running into you in hospital beds!"

Dad smirked. "It appears to be my specialty of late—and I didn't choose to be in this bed, John. I have no control over whether Annette Hallows puts a hit out on me."

Worry spread over John's face, yet his entire body straightened. Without realizing it, he had slipped into parade rest—he was awaiting orders, ready for battle, for war. Dad had fallen for a soldier.

"She shot Jade, and now she beats you up," John frowns. "She's got to be stopped soon—no more playing around, okay? We've got to get her."

"Jade and I are on the case," Dad reassured John, wincing again slightly as he shifted around in his bed. "Your assistance is welcome, however. A good assistant is hard to come by."

There was a moment of uneasy tension, as John and I both realized the implications of Dad's statement. I pretended, however, to be as oblivious as Dad was to it.

"I think I'll see about it," John offered. "Been in a bit of a rough patch lately…But you know me…"

Dad chuckled. "You are addicted to risks."

"Me?" John grinned, staring at Dad as if he were his entire world. "Never."

Awkwardly, I watched the two of them. Happiness rippled through me for Dad, but there was sadness as well. Dad and I stuck together as we were both alone. It was because of that that we had become best friends, bonded as family. My smile fell.

How long would it take Dad to forget me once he was no longer alone?


	12. Chapter 12

For once, Dad was asleep. His chest fell and rose slowly, his eyes shut softly. Supposedly, we look peaceful when we are asleep, like little angelic beings. Dad didn't look peaceful—and yet, he didn't look stressed. He looked human.

I shuddered a bit, wincing at the way I put on airs. Dad would have been appalled, accusing me of romanticism everything like Uncle John.

"Dad?" I tested, peering over at him. There was no sign of movement beyond his steady breathing and the accompanying beat of the monitors.

Seeing that the coast was clear, I reached into the tiny bag, pulling out the gun. I glanced at the tiny little gun, noticing everything I could about it—which wasn't all too much. It was a nine-millimeter, like most of the guns that Uncle John used. I pulled out my mobile and did a quick search.

It was a beretta storm subcompact. Frowning a bit, I stared down at the tiny gun, and I felt as if it was staring back at me. Most likely, it was questioning what it had done to deserve this fate—to be placed into the hands of an emotional teenager.

The monitor beeped softly again, shaking me out of my reverie. Wordlessly, I slid the gun back into its bag and put it away, concealing it again. Dad's eyelids remained closed, his body greedily sucking up every moment of sleep it could get.

Dad never did sleep much.

"I'm going out," I muttered.

There was no response. I grinned a bit and slowly left the room, shutting the door behind me. There were very few people around the hospital at this hour—it was some time in the morning, the sun had yet to rise. I made my way down the hallway, stopping outside of a supply closet. It opened easily, and there were a few spare uniforms inside.

"Bingo!" I chuckled, slipping one on. I added the nametag to the ensemble, clipping it on my shirt. It hadn't been too hard to swipe one from the nurse earlier—he was far too trusting.

Closing the door, I glanced around quickly, before deciding to head left. I didn't have the luxury of knowing exactly where the morgue would be, as I did at St. Bart's. But in theory, most hospitals would keep the dead people in a similar area.

About twenty minutes later, I found it. The morgue was seemingly abandoned, with various chemicals left all over the place. I didn't bother to close the door shut all of the way, allowing it to be slightly open—less noise, that way.

Pulling open a drawer, I grinned when I found a needle—exactly what I would need. It was fresh and clean, as well as miniscule—hard for anyone to notice, and easy to conceal.

Various chemicals were stacked all over the counter, most of them with an extremely high molarity. One beaker was filled with a shiny silver liquid of a creamy consistency similar to blood. I carefully inserted the tip of the needle into it, drawing the chemical inside of it. Once finished, I slipped the needle into my pocket, only to be interrupted by the soft buzz of my phone.

The message was from _07774 123 456._

I glanced around the morgue quickly, to see if anyone was going to walk in on me. There was no one there beyond myself and a handful of corpses. Biting my lip, I slid my thumb across the screen of my phone, opening up the message.

_You were named correctly, my darling. –M_

I stood there frozen, watching as another text arrived, within moments.

_Mallory means misfortune and bad luck. –M_

The thought occurred to me that Masquerade, or rather Annette Hallows, could see that I read the text the instant I opened it up. It was more likely that I had turned on read receipts, yet I had a sinking suspicion that she was watching me inside.

It seemed more like her.

_Jade has a bit of an obvious meaning, doesn't it? Precious gem. –M_

_An unfortunate jewel… -M_

There was a pause, in which I could imagine her, staring at her phone hungrily on the other end. I made no motion to reply, feeling frozen in place, as if my entire life depended on these few seconds. I didn't even dare breathe.

_I'd like to meet. I'll send you a bit of instruction on where we're meeting. You'll figure it out, smart girl. –M_

I gulped a bit, sliding my phone back into my pocket. I didn't need to see any more messages from her. Exiting the morgue, I felt the weight of the gun become lighter in my pocket, and for a moment, I forget all about the stolen needle.

* * *

Dad hadn't moved by the time I returned, collapsing into a chair. My heartbeat had sped up rapidly as I snuck back towards Dad's room, attempting to look confident in my nurse's disguise.

"I'm hoping whatever you stole from the morgue was important," Dad admonished. "It must have been, for our chemical supply at home to not be sufficient."

I winced slightly. "When did you wake up?"

"A few hours ago," Dad smirked. "You failed that test—but it's alright. You'll have a chance again to recognize when someone is actually asleep, and when they are conveying the illusion of it."

He sat up from his position on the bet, his face filled with pretentious pride. He grinned a bit at me, holding up his hand. It took me a second to realize his meaning, and once I did, I chucked my phone at his face.

He still caught it.

"That hurt," he complained emotionlessly, unlocking my phone with ease. I grimaced a bit, making a mental note to change the passcode—again.

A frown flashed across his face, as his eyes quickly scanned the text messages from Masquerade. He threw the phone down on the bed. It landed softly, denting the bed slightly under its rather minimal weight.

"This confirms my suspicions of Masquerade's obsession with you," Dad frowned again, avoiding my gaze. "It goes beyond what it appeared to be at first."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I mean…It was pretty clear that she has some sort of creepy thing for me…I don't think that's changed, has it?"

Dad nodded slightly. "Have I ever told you the story of how I faked my death, Jade?"

"I…I'm not sure," I frowned a bit, wrinkling my eyebrows. "Why is it important?"

He chuckled slightly, getting out of the hospital bed. His injuries must have made it painful, but he moved gracefully, unencumbered by them.

"When I faked my death, I made one flaw in my plan," Dad said softly, gazing off into space. "I did everything perfectly to convince John and the world that I was dead."

"What's with the history lesson?" I repeated, looking at Dad strangely.

I had been told the story a thousand times, now that I thought about it. The moments were random and infrequent, with only bits and snatches being revealed at a time. And sometimes, I was convinced Dad was deliberately messing with me—it couldn't have all been true.

Yet maybe it was?

"I made a crucial error," Dad whispered. "A human error."

Was he talking about me? Did my birth have to do with Moriarty's network? I had only ever thought of the term human error in connection with myself, as it symbolized why I had come into existence. My parents never loved each other, they said. It was just a mistake, they said.

I was never meant to be, they said.

"I failed to ensure that Moriarty himself was dead," Dad said, his voice growing a bit stronger. "The data is inconclusive, yet I believe that Moriarty didn't die that day on the rooftop. There wasn't enough blood. I should have known."

"Are you saying that Moriarty is involved?" I asked, feeling a little more nervous by the minute.

Dad laughed. "No, the odds of Moriarty being involved are quite low. He's quite dead. The only issue is that he most likely was not dead back when I faked my death and began to disable his network."

"Someone else killed him, then?" I asked, sitting down on the bed.

Could Annette Hallows have started her murder spree with Moriarty, the master criminal himself? The nightmare of man seemed untouchable, covered in shadows. No one particularly enjoyed talking about him, as if the mere mention of his name would bring him back.

The idea that Annette Hallows was his murderer only led to one conclusion: that she must be more terrifying and cleverer than Moriarty himself.

It didn't seem possible. It couldn't have been possible.

"I'm afraid so," Dad nodded. "He must have rebuilt his network as I was demolishing it. And then, at some point, someone killed him. Someone took power back from him."

"So…Did Moriarty actually do the thing with the television sets?" I questioned. I dimly remembered it, when everyone television in the nation showed his face, laughing at us mere mortals.

"It would appear so," Dad answered. "At some point after that, Moriarty made a mistake—I suspect he was the one who murdered the parents of Annette Hallows, and caused her to descend into this sort of insanity."

"I…I guess that makes sense," I said, hesitantly. "Is she running Moriarty's network, then?"

Dad turned around, pacing back and forth a little bit. His mind was racing, and I knew not to bother him. When I was younger, he would make me sit outside the flat when he was in his mind palace. Several people mistook me for an orphan or a runaway, and Lestrade would show up, only to find Dad in a deep trance.

It always made for a funny story to tell, afterwards.

"It would seem so," Dad answered, curtly. "But there is one way to know for sure."

He picked up my phone from the bed, sending a message as a reply to the previous ones. He typed it out quickly, and hit send, letting it vanish and travel through space, only to go back down into Annette Hallows' phone.

Dad tossed me my phone back, allowing me to look at what he had sent.

_You killed Moriarty. –SH._

"What are you trying to do?" I pondered, looking at Dad's back.

"She'll reveal the corpse," he explained. "Drop it in and alley or something—no, that's not her style. She'll send some sort of a message with it. She's like your mother in that way…"

_Like my mother? _I frowned a bit, thinking of the cool, collected dominatrix. The insane murderer we were tracking seemed to be a far cry from Mum.

"She loves to play games."

* * *

Lestrade was past being skeptical when Dad and I showed up at the crime scene. He shook his head, hardly even bothering to go through his usual speech about how Dad should be home resting due to his injuries. It was just another day for him.

"We found him an hour ago," Lestrade said, bringing us over to the scene of the crime.

It was a primary school, with the corpse strung up on the swing set. He had been tied to it with electrical cords, designed to power a high capacity computer, the sort that an engineer would require. His eyes were a bit gouged out, with blood staining an expensive suit.

"He doesn't seem very comfortable in that," Dad commented, looking at the awkwardness of the ensemble. It was as if this man didn't dress himself—as if someone else did.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, well, here's the mystery—we have three people who have positively identified the body."

"And?" I asked. "That's hardly a mystery."

"You've got to let me finish," Lestrade chuckled grimly. "They all say he's a different person."

Dad straightened up, snapping to attention. A grin slid onto his face, and his eyes darted up and down rapidly, alternating between Lestrade and the body. He started to bounce a bit on his feet.

"Excellent!" Dad grinned. "May I speak with each of them?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Lestrade chuckled, motioning for an officer to bring him the witnesses.

It was a moment, but then an officer with curly ginger hair brought over two young men and one young woman. The first of the men was dressed in a smart suit, while the other was dressed in trashy and tattered clothes, his fingers jittering a bit against his leg. The girl appeared to be a typical college student, with dark circles framing her eyes.

"State your names, please," Lestrade instructed, nodding at the witnesses.

The young woman spoke up first. "My name's Sarah Talbot."

"Benji," the hooligan said, his voice sounding hoarse. "Benji Belason."

"Timothy Halwin," the smartly dressed man announced, holding out a hand for Dad to shake.

Dad, true to his character, didn't take it. He frowned, scanning all of the people assembled in front of him, trying to come up with some sort of theme.

"Who did you identify the victim as?" he asked simply, his eyes flashing over the group once more.

"Eddy Corentine," Sarah said, smiling a bit wistfully. "He was a good friend of mine—helped me get a few dates and study for exams."

"How quaint," Dad muttered, tossing a glance at me.

The two young men shrugged a bit, looking at each other as they debated who would go next. The stoner won the contest, evidently. "Dude was Simon Pele—we did, erm, some things together…completely legal things…"

Lestrade looked vaguely uncertain as what to do, yet Dad couldn't have cared anymore. He snapped his attention to the last witness, as if the fate of the world hinged on the words that came out of his mouth.

"He was my boyfriend," the man muttered, turning a deep shade of crimson. "Johnathan Volkan…He was a good bloke."

The three witnesses looked down at the ground, uncertain as to whether they could launch into an argument over the victim's identify, I figured. I frowned a bit, trying to understand the puzzle pieces. It didn't make any sense.

There was no way for three people to be dead certain that the victim was in fact someone else—the odds of someone intentionally getting away with that for so long were very small, hardly bigger than an iota.

"It's a simple case, Lestrade," Dad sighed. "Jade, tell him the answer."

"Me?" I groaned, glancing over at the corpse. I almost would have liked to switch places with him, if I didn't have an immense fear of death.

"Of course," Dad chuckled. "You should be able to figure out the solution—in fact, I'll give you a bit of a hint. It begins with the letter D."

Lestrade threw me a look at pity, and I wanted to start sobbing. But I knew that wasn't going to help—and by the letter hint, Dad was expecting me to use my mind palace. Instead, I decided to do something better.

I was going to pretend that this was a story.

In this story, there was a man who was three different people. He could have been lying to all of them, but it was very unlikely—he even looked like someone else had dressed him. And all of these people believed so clearly in who he was.

_Perhaps he wasn't lying to them. _

I paused for a moment, and I considered the story with this addition. The man wasn't lying and neither were they—he was really three different people.

_And it starts with the letter D._

"Do you have it, yet?" Dad frowned. "You should have had this minutes ago—solve it now, Jade."

"I'm trying to…" I grumbled, momentarily losing my train of thought.

Dad huffed a bit, stalking back and forth. The witnesses were staring at me, and I could feel them questioning me—no normal person would have been expected to already have the solution. But because my father was Sherlock Holmes, I wasn't allowed to be normal.

I was forced to be special.

"Disassociative Identity Disorder," I blurted. "More commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder—he had three personas, which is why the clothing looks awkward. Another persona dressed him before he was murdered."

"Finally," Dad said, a slight smile on his face. "Jade is quite correct. All of the witnesses have correctly identified your victim—as to who the murderer was, I'm certain you can figure it out quite easily with the information we presented to you."

Lestrade glanced over Timothy Halwin, and then he nodded at Dad. "Thank you, Sherlock…Jade."

I turned red and I marched away from the scene of the crime, heading towards the car. Everything ached, and I wished for a blade—anything that I could use to scrape up my arm, to let blood and pain flow out. I was helpless against the storm of depression and anxiety that threatened to swallow me.

Dad caught up to me, as I was waiting by the road, desperately trying to hail a cab. He frowned a bit, looking over my body language. I couldn't even bother to control it, to hide my secret from him.

"Jade," he frowned, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I stiffened, and for some absurd reason, tears began to well up in my eyes. I shook a little and I feebly tried to push his arm off of me. "Y-Yes?"

"What is bothering you?" Dad asked, his voice uncharacteristically kind and soft.

"Nothing," I snapped, taking a step away from Dad. "I'm perfectly fine. I'm all right, just like always."

I could feel Dad rolling his eyes at me, even as I looked away, hoping to catch the glimpse of a cab.

"I know your anxiety is troubling," Dad began. "But it will be better if you would talk to me about this, as it troubles you—I won't always be here."

"I know," I said bitterly. "You just can't wait to get rid of me as soon as I turn eighteen. Then you won't need to deal with the proof that you're human."

There wasn't the usual moment of silence, in which I could stew in all of my emotions. Or perhaps, in which the two of us would decide our conversation had never happened, and that we were both fine. We would pretend.

"I have no desire to get rid of you," Dad said, attempting to be soothing. "I named you Jade because you are precious to me—I wish that you would allow me to help you with your pain."

More tears welled up in my eyes. I shuddered a bit, trying to hold it all in.

Dad continued on, as if sensing that I was near the breaking point. "I have always believed that it is a parent's duty to care for their child—I do care for you, Jade. You however refuse to allow anyone to care for you."

"I know," I said, my voice cracking as the tears began to fall. "I just…I just can't believe that anyone would care about _me_."

Dad frowned, pulling me into another hug. It felt strange and odd, and I forced myself to relax, and let someone love me for once.

"Why wouldn't people care about you?" Dad questioned, holding me close.

"I don't know why," I admitted lamely, coughing a bit from the tears. "I just…know that they don't."


	13. Chapter 13

It had been a beautiful nightmare.

The details were dim and fuzzy, evading me the more I struggled to remember them. I remembered being forced to drink blood from a chalice, in which wine was added for taste. And once I had sipped from the cursed goblet, everything around me began to change.

I had felt strong—powerful, even.

And there was a woman there—a mother? A lover? A friend? A girlfriend? I couldn't remember. Yet I do recall what she had whispered to me, grinning as she held fire in her hands.

"_You'll grow to love this soon enough, Mallory."_

But of course, none of it was real. I wasn't trapped in some sort of demonic castle, the walls carved out of obsidian. I was sitting in my room, rather dully located in London. There weren't any demons here beyond the ones inside of my own mind. There was no villain to fight.

There was only me, lost and confused.

I grimaced a bit, wandering down the rickety staircase towards the main area of the flat. I lived above it all, in the room that Uncle John used to sleep in—it was a bit odd, knowing he lived in there before me. Yet the privacy was welcome.

"Dad, you up yet?" I called out, shuffling down the stairs in my pajamas.

There was no reply, but I had learned my lesson about that. "If you are, you should totally make me some pancakes!"

I snickered a bit, grabbing my medicine from the kitchen. There were enough pills to last a week, and after that, I would have to go talk with Agatha again. I wasn't deemed "safe" enough to be able to refill them whenever I liked—I had to jump through some hoops to do it.

But considering my history, that was only fair.

I swallowed the pills down with a bit of key lime yogurt, savoring the taste of it. The flat was completely silent, though that wasn't terribly unusual. Dad tended to get his few hours of sleep in the morning, while the rest of the world started to turn. He claimed it allowed criminals more time to do something interesting.

I wasn't too sure as to how likely that was.

"Wow, I'm so glad you're going to make me pancakes!" I called out, hoping to scare him out of his slumber. "You're the best dad in the history of the _galaxy_!"

Dad didn't emerge from his room, groaning and yelling about how I was old enough to make my own pancakes. He didn't complain about how my statement was arbitrary and lacked any data to support it, or bother pointing out that there were no fathers in the rest of the galaxy, just as there was no intelligent life there.

"I love politics!" I taunted, setting down the small container of yogurt.

_He must be really tired_…I mused. I had mentioned astronomy and politics already—and there was nothing. Either he was sleeping like the dead, or he simply wasn't home.

It wasn't a cause for alarm, though. Dad was vanishing at odd hours all of the time. It was hardly anything new. Pulling out my phone, I pulled up my location application—the one that would always let me know where Dad was.

_ERROR: Location Unavailable._

It wasn't unreasonable for Dad to have shut off his phone, right? And besides, only an amateur would kidnap him _again_. A professional murderer would have a new strategy by now, filled with lovely ideas.

They had to have _some_ amount of creativity, right?

"Dad!" I called out. "Are you high, in there? Do I need to call Uncle John?"

There was no response. I frowned a bit, walking towards Dad's bedroom door, and I banged my head against it. In unison, my phone chimed, alerting me to a new message. Looking down, I expected it to be from Dad.

_I could make you some pancakes, if you'd like. –M_

It wasn't.

_Why are you so obsessed with me? –JH_

I sat down in Uncle John's seat, staring down at my phone. Masquerade eagerly seemed to have read my text—the very first text that I had sent her. Dad had sent the other one, and most likely, she knew that.

"Dad!" I called out, momentarily looking away from the phone. "Flat's bugged again!"

I glanced down at my phone, hearing it chime again as a new message came in. I was excited, reading it eagerly in order to figure out something new—perhaps I would be able to solve it.

Dad would be proud of me then.

_There's no use in shouting. He can't hear you. –M_

"You can fucking hear me, can't you?" I frowned. The reply came in almost instantly.

_Of course, darling. I can always hear you. –M_

"That's a bit creepy of you," I sighed, pretending as if my heart wasn't starting to pound its way out of my chest. Dad wasn't at home—he was somewhere else, and clearly, Masquerade didn't feel like learning a new trick.

But perhaps this was still different—somehow…

_You have one hour to recover what has been taken. –M_

There was another chime, the screen flashing tauntingly up at me.

_But you do have an advantage: you already have a grave picked out for your dear father…-M_

* * *

"_What do you mean, he doesn't want to come?"_

Lestrade's voice was gruff and accusing, threatening to expose me for the liar I was. I was sitting on a swing set at a park I used to frequent, idly going back and forth. A few kids had found me to be rather strange and ran off, clinging to the legs of their mothers' as they begged to leave.

I tried not to let it bother me.

"He says that the case isn't interesting enough," I lied, feeling the individual links in the chain that held up the seat of the swing. "Honestly, you know how Dad is."

He chuckled discontentedly. _"Fine. At least give me your expert opinion on this, you aren't too bad of a detective."_

I was afraid this was going to happen.

"Sure, go ahead," I said, forcing my voice to be steady. "I'll see what I can do."

"_Thanks," _Lestrade states, blowing out a bit of air as he thinks of how to begin. _"Found a body today, cause of death was hypothermia. But the thing is, it was bloody eighty degrees where we found him!"_

I sighed a bit, trying not to become frozen with terror. I knew that if I stayed calm, I could understand the puzzle—controlling my anxiety was key.

"_Fractured skull and such too, coroner said he died this afternoon_," Lestrade paused, as if to let the drama sink in. _"Found him in the middle of a park, with kids and all!"_

Shutting my eyes, I tried to draw a picture of the scene in front of me. A park, in the middle of London, in which there was a corpse. He was killed by hypothermia, little ice crystals decorating his body, and there were various broken bones everywhere.

"Were the injuries done post mortem?" I demanded, feeling a bit giddy.

I had an idea, a potential solution.

"_Yes…How did you know?"_

"He smuggled himself onto a plane," I explained. "He couldn't take the cold, though, and died of hypothermia. Pity. He was almost back in London. His corpse fell and landed in the park, causing the fractures."

Lestrade chuckled. _"It's scary, you're more and more like him every day." _

I bit my lip, hanging up on Lestrade. I slid the mobile back into my pocket, swinging back and forth on the swing. My mental timer told me that I was starting to run out of time—I only had another half hour before I would have to locate Dad.

And yet, I was stumped for clues. My deduction skills had improved since Dad began teaching me, but I was lost.

Where would Masquerade take my father?

Dad's words from before echoed back in my mind. _"Masquerade's obsession with you…it goes beyond what it appeared to be at first." _More words and phrases joined it, swimming together with the soft sound of a ticking clock in the background. A few words, two to be precise, stood out.

James Moriarty.

Masquerade was obsessed with me—she mirrored Moriarty's methods, holding his powers and controlling his network. She had become the new Moriarty. Straining my memory, I smiled wordlessly, picking up my phone.

_St. Bart's hospital rooftop—come and play? –JH_

I closed my phone, not at all surprised when a message came in seconds later. She must have been waiting eagerly, the blood pumping furiously through her veins. Dad always said that there were two types of fans—one obsessed with sex, the other with murder.

She was definitely the latter of the two.

_I thought you'd never ask. I'm waiting. –M_

* * *

"Oh, Jade!" Molly smiled, looking at me kindly.

I stopped in my tracks, stiffening up a little bit. I had hoped that I would make it to the rooftop without running into Molly, but it looked like it couldn't have been avoided. She was too nice for her own good. I envied her for it, the way she was able to care about everyone, without being torn apart.

"Molly!" I grinned, running towards her and giving her a hug.

I hid my face from her, holding her tight. She hugged me back softly and warmly, the way that an older sister would—provided that there wasn't too much sibling rivalry. She pulled away, revealing a tired face and a clipboard covered in furious scribbles.

"What are you doing here?" she inquired, holding her clipboard against her chest. "I was just doing some paperwork, about to turn it in, actually."

"Physics experiment," I lied, kicking myself mentally.

I shouldn't have just said the first thing that came to mind—but I couldn't help it. A friend of mine had often pondered if throwing things at people off a roof would count as an experiment. And on my way up to the rooftop, I couldn't help but dwell on it.

"Oh, sounds interesting," Molly said, her smile softening a bit. "Let me know if you need any help—does Sherlock know you're here?"

"Yeah, Dad sent me here," I laughed a bit. "It was his idea to do the experiment here, rather than at home."

Molly nodded eagerly. Unfortunately, she seemed to take a genuine interest in my education. "What sort of experiment is it?"

"I'm going to…" I paused for a moment, trying to think of something intelligent. "Prove that gravity makes all things fall at an equal rate."

Molly blinked a bit, laughing awkwardly. She looked around, as if trying to find a way to excuse herself from the conversation.

"Well, that sounds very cool…" she said, forcing another laugh. "You know, Jade, if you ever need to talk…you can talk to me…"

I swallowed thickly. "Why would I need to talk to you?"

Her eyes widened a bit, as if I had just stabbed her discreetly. My face flushed, as I realized my error. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound hostile…I just…"

Molly nodded a bit. "It's alright, I understand. We were all moody teenagers once."

The blush spread more, contrasting with my pale skin. I knew that Dad and Uncle were aware of my situation—yet did Molly know as well? Did everyone know that I wasn't able to hold things together, all because of some boy?

It still hurt to think about him. I could still picture him, remembering how happy I had been—I thought that I was in love. Of course, it wasn't meant to be. He couldn't hide the fact that he was cheating.

But I figured it was better to be in a relationship with a cheater than in no relationship at all, so I stayed. I stayed in hell. I endured the screaming and the belittling and the fears of violence. I took it all and I hid it. I hid it so that way not even Sherlock Holmes could know.

He didn't destroy me—I had destroyed myself, all for a love that could never come true.

"Thanks," I said awkwardly. "But I'm fine, really. Just going to go do this experiment—I'll see you some other time, yeah?"

Molly nodded, pulling me into another hug. She squeezed me and then released me, smiling at me again. "You're sad when other people can't see—I know you must hate it, but you really are like your father, Jade."

"Everyone says that," I grumbled, starting to walk towards the stairs. Masquerade was waiting for me, holding my father's life hostage. I didn't have time to deal with emotions.

Molly started to call out to me, yet then she grew quiet. I imagined what she was about to say to me, with each statement more and more dramatic than the next. And then, I was marching up the stairs, feeling the weight of Uncle John's gun as it struck against my leg silently as I moved.

Caring wasn't going to be an advantage—it never would be.

* * *

When I was younger, I would always request a bedtime story. My favorite story had been the one where Moriarty, bored and sullen, waited for Dad on the rooftop. Music blared from his phone and he made sweeping dramatic gestures, playing a fabulous game.

It was only now that I truly realized that story was real—that Moriarty was indeed a real person and that Dad had indeed gambled with lives. And here, I was being forced to repeat the same scenario, with an insane killer who latched onto the lives of others to find meaning.

There wasn't any music this time, however. Instead, there was a beautiful girl, wearing a black dress decorated with tiny red flowers. Her face was disillusioned, staring off into the distance. Brown hair flowed down to her shoulders and stopped, framing her delicate, pale cheeks.

Without a doubt, this was Annette Hallows—this was Masquerade.

"Hello, Mallory," she smiled sweetly, her expression appearing oddly sickly.

In a way, she appeared to be a twisted Luna Lovegood, lost in some sort of murderous haze. I shivered a bit, yet it wasn't quite from fear.

"I hate that name," I said simply, my eyes wandering around the rest of the roof. We weren't completely alone. Tied up against the small chimneystack was Dad, a thin trail of blood leading from his nose.

"It's such a beautiful name," Annette sighed. "Mallory, Mallory, Mallory…"

I glared at her, hoping the gaze would cause her to stop. It worked on most of the kids at school, as all I had to do was convince them that I could rip them apart limb from limb.

Annette only started giggling. "Mallory, Mallory, Mallory! I don't think I'll ever tire of saying your name, darling!"

"Shut up!" I snapped, practically seething. I wanted to punch her in the face and run to Dad, but I knew that I was powerless. Uncle John's gun would do nothing—she most likely had snipers trained on me at this very moment, ready to eliminate me.

"Fine…" Annette sighed, a frown slipping onto her beautiful face. "But tell me—did you like the little game that I put together for you? Did you catch all of the references?"

I blinked a bit. "You really are a fan."

A coy grin crept up her face, and she spun around, mimicking the very motions that Dad had described Moriarty making. "I've researched everything, dear! I wanted to make you love me. Did it work, hmm?"

She burst into another fit of giggles, almost falling over. I blinked again, looking at the insanity dwelling in her eyes. Like a rapid animal, she was unpredictable.

"I'm going to make you love me, Mallory," Annette taunted, wagging her finger. "You're such a lonely little child—but I can fix that! I'll make it all better…"

"I'm fine!" I shouted, pouting slightly. "Why does everyone think I'm some sort of broken doll that they need to fix?!"

She grinned further, strutting towards me. "Because you are damaged, Mallory, dear. I know all about the scars up and down your arms…May I see them?"

Reluctantly, I rolled my sleeves up. The marks there were faint, and I could see disappointment slide over her face. I sighed a bit, powerless to oppose her, and I pulled up my shirt, revealing my stomach. A spider web of scars was concealed by my shirt, normally.

Sometimes, it hurt to be clever. I had spent hours gazing at my body, picking out the perfect place for the mutilation. A few of them were fresher than others, indicating a desperate need for release, for escape.

Annette reached her hand forward, touching each of the scars softly. I flinched slightly, unused to this type of contact—it was as lovely as it was terrifying.

"You're so vulnerable," Annette whispered, dropping down to her knees. She delicately placed a kiss on my scars, before standing up again, resuming her entire height. "May I keep you, Mallory?"

"Pardon?" I frowned, pushing my shirt down to cover the scars.

"I want to keep you," Annette repeated, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to say. "You'll be mine, and I'll take good care of you. I'll show you how it's done."

"How what is done?" I asked, my tone sharp and bitter.

"Murder," Annette smiled sweetly. "It's great for stress relief—and I know that you need a lot of that! It's very good for channeling your emotions…"

My eyes darted back over to Dad—he hadn't moved, continuing to sprawl a bit despite the ligatures that restrained him. The bleeding seemed to have stopped—a sign that I hoped desperately was for the best.

Annette peered towards me, looking a bit concerned. "I don't mean to frighten you—I'm only trying to help you. I have to assume that you're sick of everyone treating you like you're weak, right?"

I nodded.

"I was the same," she said wistfully. "And then, I had the pleasure of killing someone. It made it all feel better—it was true euphoria."

She lost herself in her own thoughts, and I slipped my hand into my pocket quietly. I curled my hand around a thin object, desperately trying to come up with some sort of plan.

Could I handle her all by myself? Would I make my father proud, or would I cause his demise?

"You might want to go see someone about that," I said quietly. "You sound like a bit of a psychopath."

Her eyes moved towards me before her body did, an odd and unsettling movement. "What's wrong with that, dear? Don't you love psychopaths? I know that I make you feel excited and alive—you can feel that way all of the time, you know. You just have to do one thing."

Was it going to be something drastic, like Moriarty had demanded? I threw a gaze towards the street below, filled with tiny cars that moved. Fear gripped my heart tightly—I couldn't stand heights.

Would Masquerade ask me to kill myself?

"What would that be?" I asked her, looking up with the tiniest air of defiance.

"No need to worry, my men won't shoot unless I tell them to," Annette grinned. "But I like the way you think—it's really easy, what you have to do…In fact, you've almost done it before, haven't you?"

"Done what?"

She laughed again. "I'm sorry, this is all too funny! Come on, Mallory, guess! Use your brains and tell me what I want you to do. You can even use the gun you brought with you!"

I bit my lip, pulling the gun out from where I had concealed it. It was loaded, ready to fire. I brought it up slowly, aiming it at Annette. She only seemed to laugh more and more, every trace of collected thought gone.

"Think this through, Mallory!" Annette laughed. "If you kill me, you'll never be happy. We both know that you're too broken to be mended."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing is going to be able to save you from yourself," she taunted, flicking her tongue when she talked. "You're going to have to give into the darkness, or you'll rot where you stand."

She licked her lips a bit, her eyes darting over towards Dad. A flame seemed to flicker behind her pupils, bringing forth more and more madness.

"And what would you have me do?" I muttered, following her line of sight.

"It's very simple," Annette said, smiling softly. "If you want to be happy, you have a choice: you can kill your father, or you can kill yourself."


	14. Chapter 14

Dad still hadn't woken up. The air in my lungs felt like it was composed of cement, and I was hardly able to breathe. Annette stared at me, her head tilted like a cat, as if all of this was peculiar behavior—as if it was normal to ask someone to kill their father.

"But you're a fan of Sherlock Holmes…" I protested weakly, clenching my fists tightly. It wasn't in anger or aggression—it was for survival.

Annette's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Do you think he'll fake it, when you take that gun and blow his brains out? Or do you think it'll be real this time?"

She stared forward at me mockingly, as if waiting for me to cry out in pain. I had already considered this before, the fact that when Dad died, no one would ever know if it were for real or not. No one could properly mourn again, as we would never be truly certain if he were truly dead.

It eliminated all chances of closure.

"I don't intend to kill my father," I frowned. "So I suppose we won't be finding out, then."

"So, you're going to kill yourself?" Annette questioned, her face simultaneously thrilled and sad. "I can see it now! Mallory Holmes, the only child of Sherlock Holmes, foolishly sacrifices herself for him!"

Her tongue was like a double-edged sword, throwing cleverly veiled remarks at me constantly. She expected me to be brilliant, and to understand them all. Fortunately, I understood it clearly enough—I didn't have a choice.

She would ensure Dad died either way. The question ended up being: would I kill him myself, or would I perish instead? I wouldn't be leaving this confrontation without blood on my hands.

"You said I'm too broken to be mended," I said, with a bit of glib. "How long have you known?"

She wrinkled her face a bit, laughing and strolling over to me. She bounced with each step, ending with throwing an arm around me and pulling me towards her. "Honey, you'll have to be more specific—do I know that you hallucinate?"

Pausing, she stared at me, as if giving me the opportunity to be brave and name the one secret I had never allowed anyone to know.

"I know you tore yourself in two," she laughed, her voice bright and airy. "That's why you hate it when I call you Mallory, right? You hate that I know!"

I practically hissed at her. "You don't know anything about… about _that_. It never happened!"

Overwhelming waves of guilt washed over me, and I was tempted to withdraw inside of myself, to hide from her. Yet she continued to grin at me, taunting with her knowledge of my darkest secret.

"You killed Jade!" she giggled. "You aren't really Jade—not anymore. You're someone new!"

I lunged forward a bit, stopping myself just in time. Seething at her, I wanted nothing more than to strangle her. "You don't know what it was like!"

She waved her finger, as if scolding a small, disobedient child. "I want to hear you say it—tell me that you killed Jade and that you're Mallory."

I gritted my teeth. "How could I kill myself? You're being absurd."

"I'm not the one who decided she had another person living in her body," Annette pointed out, cackling like a hyena. "That was all you, darling! And then you killed her—you killed the other person so it would be just you!"

I shuddered a bit, my head pounding. It had been a very dark time—directly after the events that occurred with Patrick. I had withdrawn so far into myself that I had split my personality in two—I had become Mallory, staring at the broken and weak form of Jade.

But I couldn't bear the idea of having another person in my body—I couldn't let her live anymore. So I withdrew inside of my own mind palace, killing her brutally, and throwing her body into the darkest corner of it, where it would never be found.

And despite my having recovered my sanity, I could still feel her, slowly waking up in the back of my mind—returning from the dead.

"That never happened," I protested. "I don't know how you came to that conclusion—but you're wrong. I've never killed anyone."

Her head shook back and forth a bit, disappointment etching her face. "I suppose it's only natural for you to be like that—should I wake your father up and tell him that, that you mentally killed yourself?"

"No!" I snapped, spinning tightly on my heel. I stalked away from Masquerade, heading towards the edge of the building. There were small spots in my vision as I looked down, taking in the scene below.

"You want to do it that way, then?" Annette mused. "Well, I am a theme of symbolism…it would be rather sweet, for you to die the way your father was supposed to…"

A few cars were passing by again, small little black carriages. The world continued to turn, and if I focused hard enough, I could imagine that I could feel the turn of the Earth.

I didn't have any method prepared for faking my death—I wasn't that clever. It was all for real. There would be no magic tricks. There would only be death.

"What choice do I have?" I sighed. "I'm not going to kill my father for some stranger—I don't know you."

I didn't dare turn around. The sound of the cars distantly whizzing by was all that I could hear. Maybe I had stunned her into silence—or perhaps she was coming to grips with her insane delusions.

"You do know me," her voice whispered, directly behind my ear. The hairs on the back of my neck trembled almost, before slowly standing up straight. I could feel her breath, gentle and soft, nuzzling against my skin.

"You know me almost as well as you know yourself," Annette taunted. "What was it that you said to me at first? What made you be so kind to a murderer, Mallory? Tell me—what was it?"

"_It's okay," I said, smiling, even though no one could see my face in all of this darkness. "I'm not going to hurt you—my name's Jade. Jade Holmes."_

The wind whipped at my knees a bit, bringing me back into reality. My pulse was erratic and I stared down, imagining my body impaled at the bottom—it would all be real.

"Come on, Mallory," she pressed. "I want you to tell me why you said that!"

"Because I was being stupid!" I groaned, a single tear trailing down my cheek. "Are you happy, now? Or do you need my whole bloody life story too?"

Her laugh was beginning to get on my nerves, and once again, I fantasized about killing her. The blood on my hands would never vanish, yet it would allow me to be true to myself. I wasn't a good person.

I was more the murderer than the detective.

"I already know your life story," Annette explained. "But you're right—I'll need more than that, Mallory. We both know you weren't being stupid for no reason."

_"What's your name?" I asked, a bit naively. "I won't turn you in."_

I shut my eyes tightly for a moment, and when I opened them again, I could see little spots in my vision. I tried to focus on them, rather than battling the question that Annette had posed. The villains in films had always entertained me—yet I had assumed that in real life, I wouldn't feel the same way about them.

Surely, I would be able to recognize evil.

"Do you need a little _push _to be able to say it, Mallory?" Annette taunted, placing her hand lightly on my back.

I took another slight step forward, half of my foot hanging over the edge. My heart plummeted as I glanced down, becoming more and more aware of how easily I could have died.

Would it be worth it, to die and keep this secret?

"I was fascinated by you," I admitted. Annette pulled her hand away and I sighed in relief, taking a few steps away from the ledge.

"Continue," she instructed, her tone as playful as a cat with a mouse.

I gulped a bit. "I…I wanted to understand you, and to see if you could understand me."

The words felt empty and hollow, reflective of a previous mentality. I shivered a bit, feeling Annette's gaze bore into my back. For a little while, I had forgotten that Dad could potentially be awake, watching all of this—I had no way of knowing.

"I do understand you," Annette sighed, snaking an arm around me. "Would you like me to prove it to you, Mallory?"

"Prove what?" I frowned, shaking a bit at the contact. I wanted to scream and run, but I was trapped—I was helpless.

She clicked her tongue, planting a soft kiss on my neck.

"I can prove that I'll love you, and that no one else will," Annette said dreamily. "You'll be free with me, Mallory. You won't need to be sad anymore…you can be happy. Don't you want to be happy?"

I found myself nodding, as if I was being lured away by the Pied Piper. Annette turned my head around, forcing me to look straight at her—she was striking, perhaps the most gorgeous girl I had ever seen.

"Of course you want to be happy," she smiled.

Sniffling slightly, a few more tears slid down my face. She reached her hand up, brushing them away slowly and gently, the way one would for a lover or a child.

"Prove it, then," I whispered, my voice breaking slightly. "Call off your men—let me choose you of my own accord."

She paused for a moment, her hand resting on my cheek.

"I'm unarmed," I added. "You know as much—there's no danger here. Let me…let me love you unconditionally, Annette."

Her gaze shifted towards John's gun, abandoned several feet away from us. She walked over to it, picking it up delicately, and then she chuckled it. Laughing a bit, she waved her hand above her head in a peculiar pattern.

"There," Annette grinned. "Come here, Mallory—come choose me. I've called off my men."

I put my hand into my pocket, shuffling towards her awkwardly. A few more tears escaped from my eyes, the water of it all welling up on my skin. Annette, for her credit, enveloped me into a soul-warming hug. I took my hand out of my pocket.

"Ouch!" Annette giggled a bit. "I think your jacket has a pin or something sticking out of it, Mallory."

I nodded vacantly. "Or something."

Pressing my thumb a bit, I looked up at her inquisitively. "Is this where it hurts?"

"Yes," Annette nodded, looking a bit surprised. She glanced down, her eyes widening in shock and horror.

I withdrew the needle, throwing it aside. "Are you familiar with dimethylmercury?"

By the way she was turning paler and paler by the moment, I deduced that she was very much aware.

"Mercury poisoning itself isn't that bad—it'll take about a day or so to kill you," I mused, slowly letting go of Annette. "Dimethylmercury is far more dangerous. It'll affect your brain, kidney, and lungs. Right now, your blood is carrying it to all of those places—even I have no idea how long until it'll kill you."

It would be a neat experiment, at least. My current bet was five minutes, yet all I could do was calmly explain it to her and stare. I didn't dare think about what I had done—about the blood on my hands.

"You…You're trying to kill me," Annette grinned, breaking out into a laugh. "They were right, you know—you really are better than your father! He could only kill a business man!"

She coughed a bit, falling forward onto her knees. Beads of sweat rolled off of her, as her body desperately tried to fight against the internal assault. Her breaths became more and more shallow, prohibiting her from keeping any oxygen.

"You're the real deal!" Annette exclaimed, coughing again. Blood sprayed onto the cement ground of the rooftop.

"Who was right?" I frowned, looking down at her from above.

More and more blood left her body. Her entire body was trembling, and she crawled towards me, latching onto my feet with her hands. "But that would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it, Mallory, dear?"

I stared at her, looking at her face. Various expressions flickered over it, a lifetime's worth of emotions in a single second. And then it froze, as her body fell limply to the ground. There were no more sounds of coughing and laughing—it was quiet.

An eerie calm spread throughout me—I had successfully killed Annette Hallows.

I, like my father, was a murderer.

I walked over towards him calmly, slowly undoing his bonds. He blinked wearily up at me—how long had he been awake for?

"She's dead," I said simply, avoiding his gaze. "I took care of her."

Dad nodded curtly, wiping a bit of the blood off of his face. He didn't dare let it touch his precious coat, and then he rose, without any assistance. He towered over me, and for a moment, I could catch a look of pity.

I didn't feel a need to be pitied. I felt nothing.

"Are you alright?" he asked, glancing around. He was struggling to form words, tempted to pace, yet wounded all the same. He was as trapped as I was.

"I'm perfectly fine," I said, my gaze falling onto Annette's corpse. "You know, Uncle was right—caring really isn't an advantage."

* * *

Dad had dealt with the body, allowing me to stare at it vacantly. He left a tip behind for Mycroft, to allow him to let the case remain cold and unsolved. No one would ever know that I had killed her.

Did I want them to know?

I was filled with uncertainty and hatred the entire cab ride home. I wanted to scream and cry, to bleed and to die. Everything felt like a slap in the face, an accusation.

Had I fallen in love with her?

When I opened the door to the flat and walked inside, it was as if I had pushed up against air. I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything. It was all gone, all of it—I had finally managed to not feel anymore. Uncle would have been proud of me—perhaps Dad would be proud of me as well.

Had I killed myself still?

"Jade," Dad's voice called out, ringing through the silence.

_"Mallory, Mallory, Mallory! I don't think I'll ever tire of saying your name, darling!"_

I turned slowly, feeling fatigue in every portion of my body. Dad was standing by the staircase, blocking my escape to my room.

"Yeah, Dad?" I said sullenly, abandoning all efforts to keep my voice lively.

Dad frowned deeply, hesitantly taking a few steps forward. "I remember when I killed Magnussen—it was horrendous. I nearly died from it."

I nodded, familiar with the story. Dad had returned to drugs. If the medics hadn't come in time, he might have been dead. I might have been closer to being a true orphan.

"Do not let this consume you," Dad cautioned. "Mycroft is wrong."

"He's never wrong," I laughed dully. "He's Mycroft. He knows everything—there's no point in pretending otherwise."

Dad rolled his eyes slightly. "Jade, I make a policy of remaining distant—a policy that I hope you realize does not extend to you. Caring is very much an advantage. Without it, we are lonely and isolated, pretending to be content within our own misery."

He took a few more steps forward, pulling me into a hug. My body shook a bit as true tears fell, and as I melted in my father's embrace.

"But…it hurts…so much," I choked out. "Why does it have to hurt so much?"

Dad rubbed my back a bit, pulling me closer to him. I let myself sob, staining his shirt with his tears. I didn't care anymore—it hurt too much to pretend that everything was okay.

"Because that's how you know you're human," Dad said softly, continuing to rub my back soothingly. "If it didn't hurt, then you wouldn't be alive—you'd be dead."

"_You'll be free with me, Mallory. You won't need to be sad anymore…you can be happy. Don't you want to be happy?"_

"I want to feel happy again," I sobbed, throwing my arms around Dad. My grip was weak and shaky, yet he held me close all the same, attempting to comfort me.

"Everyone does," Dad nodded, rocking back and forth slightly on his heels. The swaying motion was soothing, like the peaceful waves on a beach. It didn't stop the tears however—instead, only more came.

"I thought we were better than other people," I sobbed. "You won't love me unless I'm better than everyone else—but I'm too stupid and dumb and…and…and…"

Dad shushed me, pulling me tighter to him. I felt a tear hit the top of my head.

"Jade, you never have to be more than yourself," Dad said, his voice strangely hoarse. "You don't need to be anything else—you're my daughter, and that's all that matters."

I coughed a bit, unable to breathe properly with the tears flowing. "Patrick…he…he thought I was a freak…and…and I wasn't good enough…"

Another tear hit my head.

"You are good enough, Jade," Dad reassured me, smoothing my hair. "He was the idiot—not you."

I nodded a bit, sniffling. The tears were wet and sticky, covering my face. "Why are you being so…not you?"

Dad laughed, though it sounded strained. "Jade, it is my duty to ensure your wellbeing. This includes your much neglected mental health."

Sniffling again, I slowly pulled away from the hug. I rubbed my eyes dry, and I didn't fail to notice the way Dad's eyes were red as well.

Perhaps I hadn't killed myself on the rooftop.

Perhaps I had saved myself.


	15. Epilogue

I frowned slightly, peering over the pile of papers. It was becoming more and more confusing, the symbols blurring together and creating new concepts. Einstein's theory of general relativity could have been the properties of continuous functions—my brain was completely dead, killed by overuse.

"Of course I had to take seven bloody A levels…" I grumbled, pushing myself away from my desk. My chair rolled backwards across the floor, clicking slightly on each crack between floorboards.

Closing my eyes, I tried to forget about all of the subjects. Biology, Chemistry, and Physics were flooding my brain, performing a cruel dance. Pure Mathematics would then jump in, quickly followed by Psychology and History. Unfortunately, that was when English Literature would join in, furthering my misery.

It didn't help that I spent most of my time following around Dad on cases, occurring at all hours of the night. Crime never slept, and neither did he.

I let out a sigh, glancing over at the clock—it was only nine in the morning. Dad wouldn't even be awake yet. A burning sensation in my stomach had awoken me earlier, quickly shifting into a new feeling—a feeling of being repeatedly stabbed, over and over again. I had to force myself to do something, to do anything.

Otherwise, the feeling would consume me. I would shake all over, terrified of the slightest noise. When I was productive, the feeling would lessen—I could be at peace, as long as I didn't pause to think.

My throat tightened up suddenly—I gasped for air—and then I grabbed the edge of my bed, my knuckles turning white. In a moment, it had passed. Breathing out slowly, I attempted to calm my quivering heart.

It had been ages since that fateful day, yet it haunted my mind at times. I could see her still, in all of her beauty, offering me a better life—one where I was happy and free.

Sometimes, I regretted the choice I had made that day.

I would come to terms with the fact that I had killed someone—that I had ended her life—and I would find myself paralyzed. Closing my eyes tightly and pretended it was all a horrible dream had helped at first, but now, it failed to remedy it.

I worried that I would be broken forever, lost without any hope of being saved. When would the madness end?

Shuddering a bit, I grabbed my blanket—an orange one, a gift from my father—and I draped it around my shoulders. Uncle had tried to get me into counseling after the events, insisting that I was traumatized. I knew that he was right, yet I couldn't bring myself to face other people. I hadn't been able to face Dad.

It must have been frustrating for him, the way that I would improve, only to regress. He had caught me refusing to eat and then he started to force food down my throat, simply to keep me alive. No one had been able to get through to me.

All I was able to see was the blood on my hands, slowly dripping down towards the floor and staining the carpet.

There was a soft knock, timid and hopeful.

I jumped a bit, running towards the window. The knock had to have come from outside, down on the pavement. Dad had told me the various signs of clients from outside—the hesitation usually had to do with some sort of love triangle, difficult and tragic.

Those were the cases that bored Dad to no end.

A familiar horror stood on the pavement, glancing around uneasily. I withdrew slightly, unable to look away, yet terrified at being noticed. My heart thumped painfully, as I became more and more certain of who it was.

It was him—it was Patrick.

His face was thin and pained, his cheeks more prominent than they had been. His hair was tussled in a way that was supposed to be fashionable, and for some absurd reason, he was wearing a bright pink bowtie.

Dad had always deduced that Patrick was a repressed homosexual—he would have chuckled at the sight of this.

Or perhaps, he would have glared, prepared to rip him limb from limb.

"Dad!" I tried to shout, yet my voice came out as a hoarse whisper. I bit my lip, feeling it crack open, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

"Dad!" I tried again, forcing myself to move, despite the paralysis I felt.

My limbs were shaky and stiff as I forced myself to leave my room, walking down the many sets of stairs to meet Patrick at the door. Each movement felt robotic and forced, my heart rapidly speeding up more and more.

Unfortunately, I did not run into Dad in my descent—he could have still been asleep, or possibly, he had already left on some sort of case.

_Calm down, Jade. He isn't that scary. He's just human—he can feel pain just like you. _I grimaced a bit, finding myself standing right in front of the door.

There was another knock, a little more assertive than before. I bit my already bleeding lip, mentally plotting out an escape route. I wanted to curl up into a ball and wait for him to leave more than anything.

I opened the door.

"Patrick!" I called out, forcing my voice to sound delighted.

He looked considerably worse than when I had seen him before. He was malnourished, his skin covered in doodles and scars. I winced a bit, unconsciously grabbing at my own skin.

My own scars were faded, a light shade of pink against my pale skin. It had been ages since I had last spilled my own blood—according to Agatha, I was recovering.

I was beginning to find my own sort of peace.

"Jade," he smiled wearily, looking my over. "You look…good."

"Thanks," I said awkwardly, laughing nervously. _Too bad I can't say the same to you. _

Patrick coughed a bit, peering at my pajamas. He frowned sharply. "Star Wars? That's stupid."

A while back, I would have nodded along. I would have grown very quiet and meek around him, holding back all of my ideas and my opinions. He was the one who knew everything—I didn't know anything. I was just a girl.

"I don't care what you think," I said quietly. I peeked up at him, meeting his eyes for one second.

They were filled with surprise.

"Oh, well…You know it's a dumb movie," Patrick continued awkwardly. "But that isn't why I'm here—I need you, Jade. I need you to come back."

_Oh?_

Patrick gulped, shifting on his feet a bit. He winced at the movement, as it caused his clothing to brush against his skin. _More cuts, probably—he's addicted to self harm. _

"Life without you doesn't mean anything, Jady," Patrick said, smiling clumsily up at me. "I…I didn't realize what I had until I lost it. And I want to fix that. I…I want to marry you one day, do all the things we talked about…"

He shuffled, waiting for me to say something. I stared at him, frozen in fear and terror. Part of me was wistful, wanting to run into his arms and feel safe there.

But I never had felt safe there, had I?

"You can be happy with me," Patrick said softly. "We…We can be together again. Don't you want that?"

"No," I said quietly. I raised my head, looking him in the eye. "I don't want to be together again, Patrick."

His face fell. "You don't mean that, Jade. You've always wanted this—you wanted to get away from this place—you wanted to leave with me."

I took a deep breath. Everything came to mind at once, the ways that Patrick had told me he loved me. Yet they were tinged with darkness, with screaming and crying, with abuse and hatred.

I couldn't go back there.

"I don't want you, Patrick," I said firmly, clenching my hands slightly. "Honestly, I'd rather go to hell than spend another day here with you—you're insufferable."

"I don't understand," Patrick frowned. "Is he…is he making you say this?"

"No," I laughed. I felt strangely in control, for once. "Dad doesn't make me do things—you were the one who did that…do you remember when you screamed at me, all because I wasn't stupid like the rest of the world?"

He nodded guilty, grabbing the back of his head in nervousness. For a moment, my heart softened—he looked just like an anime character.

"Well, that was wrong of you," I snapped, anger coursing through me again. "You caused me to hate myself and to think that I wasn't worth it—you _never_ should mess with a Holmes."

Patrick winced a bit, a bit of fear crawling into his face. "But…Jade…."

I shook my head. Suddenly, I felt very strange. "I don't remember why I was afraid of you. You aren't worth it."

He opened his mouth to object, a few tears welling up in his eyes. He was the perfect picture of vulnerability.

"Goodbye, Patrick," I said. "Don't let me catch you here again—you remember my family, don't you?"

He gulped as I shut the door in his face. I grinned, trembling all over, yet it wasn't from fear.

It was from happiness.

* * *

It was a dreary sight.

Dad and I stared down at the corpse. The man was an immigrant, heavily battered up. When the police arrived on the scene, he was still breathing, but barely. He had whispered something about a key, and then he promptly perished.

"Got any idea?" Lestrade frowned, looking down at the haggard corpse. "It's something to do with a key—hopefully it'll lead us to figuring out who killed this poor bastard."

Dad rolled his eyes. "It's hardly a mystery—I've already solved it. Jade, your solution?"

I chuckled nervously, snapping on a pair of gloves. "So, what exactly did he say when he died, Lestrade?"

"A key," Lestrade quoted, staring around the scene. Railroad tracks were a bit away, yet no one had witnessed anything before the anonymous person made the call.

"A key?" I repeated. He nodded in confirmation.

I bit my lip, staring at the man's clenched hands. Rigor mortis had already set in, and I struggled to unfold them. I winced slightly as there was a snap—his finger broke clearly.

"Sorry," I said awkwardly, glancing over at the direction of the forensics team.

There was a small locket in his hand, and I managed to pluck it out. It was rusting and old—some sort of family heirloom. Opening it, a picture of a young girl fell out. She wasn't exactly gorgeous, yet she was pretty in her own way.

"He didn't speak English," I whispered, looking up at Dad for confirmation. Dad nodded, his smile betraying the smallest ounce of pride.

Lestrade, however, looked befuddled. "Then what was he going on about a key for, if he couldn't speak English?"

"He wasn't talking about a key," I said, standing up confidently. I handed the locket over to Lestrade, who stared at it without any recognition. "He was saying _here_, it only sounded like _a key_ because he wasn't speaking English. He's from South America somewhere…"

"Spanish?" Lestrade guessed, looking over the locket.

"He most likely was committing adultery," I explained. "Perhaps pedophilia. Either way, the murderer is connected to that girl somehow—you can search Google by image, you'll find her easily."

Lestrade nodded, smiling gratefully. He handed over the locket to a member of his team, who quickly catalogued it all. A few dirty glances were thrown at Dad and I, but I tried not to let them bother me.

They were mostly annoyed that we worked free, _and _we obtained better results.

"Thanks, you two," Lestrade chuckled. "You know, Jade…The Yard did some talking and…we got you a scholarship."

I glanced among the members of the Yard who were present. A few of them were smiling and nodding, while the rest of them were just as hostile as before. I smiled weakly.

"I'm not going to school just yet…I've got another year left," I said, feeling a bit awkward. "You don't have to do that for me…."

Lestrade laughed. "We're practically family with you two—we _want_ to do this, Jade."

Even Donovan seemed to be a little bit cheery, winking at me with a smile. I squirmed internally, not able to fight the grin that broke out onto my face.

"Thank you," I said, hugging Lestrade briefly. He hugged back in surprise, though he let go.

"Phone vibrated," Lestrade explained. "Think you got a text."

I blushed a bit, mumbling an apology. Reaching into my pocket, pulling out my phone. There was indeed a text there. The number was unknown, completely foreign to me, yet the message sent a chill down my spine.

_Oh, Mallory, Mallory, Mallory…Have you forgotten me so soon? –M_

She was back.


End file.
